


Choosing Grey

by betagyre



Series: Choosing Grey [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Heroes, BDSM, Dark Magic, Deathly Hallows, Drama, Espionage, F/M, Horcruxes, Minor Character Death, Political Intrigue, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Sexual Content, Time Travel, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 124,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/betagyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione has always been a warrior for the Light. But when an attempt to salvage more than a Pyrrhic victory lands her in 1944, she quickly realizes that sometimes it is best to allow a lesser evil to flourish, because defeating it only creates the conditions for a greater one to rise. With conspiracies, schemes, and difficult choices in every corner, and a charismatic young Tom Riddle who is increasingly interested in her, she will eventually have to answer the question: How much darkness and grey in him can she accept?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phoenix Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve decided to dip my toe into the HGTR waters, since it is my guilty pleasure HP pairing. There are going to be some similarities between this fic and others in the genre, but I hope that what I’m doing with it is different enough that it is unique.
> 
> Some warnings. I’ve always found the “he is completely redeemed and renounces the Dark Arts” iteration of this ship to be… not my personal cup of tea. When I want to read a pairing with a sweet good guy, as I sometimes do, I can look elsewhere. This is, as I said, a _guilty_ pleasure. But I also don’t care for the iteration that keeps him pretty much “pitch black,” violently and physically sadistic to her, and completely unsympathetic. So there’s a reason for the title—more than one, in fact.
> 
> This will not be just a school story. In fact, the primary plot will be heavy on political intrigue, with school stuff as minor subplots.
> 
> I am not British and may not always get the idiom right. If that happens, I apologize.
> 
> _Past readers: Your history page may show that this fic has "updates" made. My original image host broke half of the links to my images and I've had to fix them. These are not text revisions._

_May 2, 1998._

The Death Eaters stormed their way into the school. Harry Potter had given himself up, as the Dark Lord had expected, and every Death Eater who was still alive had watched as the Dark Lord cast the unblockable Killing Curse on the boy. They had watched as he toppled to the ground insensible—along with the Dark Lord.

And neither of them had awakened. Potter was indeed dead; that had been confirmed not only by Narcissa Malfoy, newly bereaved of her only child, but by several other Death Eaters. The Dark Lord was unconscious, but no magic could awaken him. The Death Eaters, led by a livid, absolutely unhinged Bellatrix Lestrange, were convinced that there had been a trick set up by the dead Albus Dumbledore. Sacrifice Potter to incapacitate the Dark Lord. Had they not been connected by Potter’s blood after the Dark Lord resurrected himself? Dumbledore must have known something, at last, that the Dark Lord did not, and like the hypocrite he was, was willing to sacrifice his precious Boy Who Lived.

They were an angry mob, enraged at being deceived, enraged at losing their Leader, and when they forced their way back into the castle, they were merciless. Everyone who chose to fight on the other side was fair game, wizard blood or no.

They had still been defeated in the end. Longbottom had decapitated the Dark Lord’s snake, Nagini, and Molly Weasley—who had just lost Fred, Ron, Ginny, and the boy who was practically her foster-son, Harry Potter—at last avenged their deaths by taking out Bellatrix with a well-aimed Killing Curse.

It was a massacre. Every single Death Eater died, though far too many fighters for the Light also met untimely ends. In the end, there were more dead than living. When at last the surviving teachers sent scouts into the forest to retrieve anyone the Death Eaters might have left alive as hostages, they found Voldemort’s body. At some point, he had lapsed from coma into death.

Hermione Granger had a theory as to when it had happened. If Bellatrix had been right about the blood bond between Harry and Voldemort being the reason why Voldemort went into a coma, then Voldemort would have died for good when Neville destroyed the last Horcrux. It was the only thing that made sense, when the scouts reported back that Voldemort was dead. She had wanted to be among those scouts, anything to get out of this wrecked castle and away from the bodies of so many friends, but Professor McGonagall forbade it.

“You and I should go to the Headmaster’s office to see what it was that Potter found there before—before he—” McGonagall broke off, dabbing at her eyes.

Hermione nodded. Everything about this felt surreal to her. Harry was gone. Ron was gone. Ginny was gone. So many others she knew—gone. None of those deaths had truly sunk in yet, though, and going to the Head office was something to distract her from that awful realization for a little while longer.

She went up the stairs with her old teacher, noticing the many lines that McGonagall’s face now bore. She had been silver-haired for as long as Hermione had known her, but it seemed that she had accumulated many more lines on her face over the past year.

_Small wonder, with Death Eaters “teaching” in the castle,_ Hermione thought as they trudged into Dumbledore’s— _Snape’s_ —office.

McGonagall noticed the Pensieve, active with a swirl of memories in its basin, and rushed over to it with a cry. Hermione followed her.

Several minutes later, they withdrew their faces from the basin and gazed at each other with shocked eyes. McGonagall sat down hard in the Headmaster’s chair.

“All this time, he was working for us,” she said, overwhelmed. “I—if I’d just known—”

Hermione was not feeling particularly charitable toward Albus Dumbledore after visiting the basin of Snape’s memories. “If only Professor Dumbledore had _told_ Harry—or _anyone—_ more than he did?” she said in a tone that surprised her.

McGonagall looked up at her former student, unable to disagree.

Hermione quickly made a decision about something. _To hell with Dumbledore’s secrets._ “Professor, Dumbledore gave Harry the Resurrection Stone—you know, one of the Deathly Hallows. I’m sure Harry had it on him when he went into the Forbidden Forest. Do you think it might still be on his—his body?” she choked out, unwilling to say the words, to make it real.

McGonagall looked absolutely shocked but quickly composed herself. “It is possible, but Miss Granger, if you mean to do what I think you do—”

“I just want to talk to Harry again,” she whispered. The tears that had been absent all morning were finally beginning to well up in her eyes. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to any of them, but Harry—he just _left,_ he didn’t tell _anyone,_ and if I could ask him what happened—just to be sure that Voldemort isn’t coming back—”

McGonagall stared at Hermione for a while before nodding. “If the artifact is on his body, it should be removed anyway before someone else finds it.” She left the office.

Left in solitude, Hermione gazed around the office. The wall of portraits was present, but Dumbledore’s portrait was currently empty. _Just as well, for his own good,_ she thought mutinously. She noticed a long drawer in the front of the desk, and for lack of anything better to do, opened it.

A collection of oddments greeted her. She saw a small Pocket Sneakoscope, a bundle of parchments, a leatherbound book, and numerous instruments that she could not identify. There was also a Remembrall, of all things. Hermione snorted. Whose had _that_ been? It couldn’t have been Severus Snape’s, but it was almost as difficult to imagine it as Albus Dumbledore’s.

Hermione’s breath caught as she noticed another object. It was a small hourglass filled with red sand, enclosed in a loop as if it were a Muggle gyroscope. There was not a chain. Unable to resist, Hermione picked it up and examined it. She withdrew her wand and cast a diagnostic spell at it.

On the blank parchment on the desk appeared the words “360 days.” They glimmered and faded away. Hermione sighed and set the Time-Turner down on top of the desk, considering it.

In her third year, she had researched Time-Turners thoroughly—well, as thoroughly as those without Unspeakable-level Ministry clearance could do. The one she had been issued was a basic model, with a maximum range of about twelve hours. There were others, of course, with greater ranges. As far as the publicly available books could tell, however, the maximum amount of time that any Time-Turner could be used to send someone back was about a year, and always back in time, never forward—again, unless Ministry Unspeakables knew differently. The device she had before her was one of these most advanced ones.

Should she use it? What would a year buy them?

_I couldn’t use it to save Dumbledore’s life,_ she thought unhappily. He had already been running out of time from the ring curse when Snape gave him a mercy killing. But perhaps she could tweak enough things that the Ministry wouldn’t fall to the Death Eaters, and perhaps she and Harry and Ron—armed with knowledge of exactly where the Horcruxes were—could take them out sooner, though getting into the Gringotts vault would be problematic.

_Did I really do that in the past 24 hours?_ It was almost impossible to believe. So much had happened. So much had been lost.

Go back a year? Hermione’s rational side told her it was reckless and risky. She knew she was considering a major decision with little sleep and intense stress and grief, and she might make things worse.

_But I also might be able to save all of them._

That settled the matter for her. If she had a chance of saving them, it was her duty to take that chance. Quickly, before McGonagall could return, Hermione felt in her robes for the beaded bag that had served her so well the past year. She did want to have all her supplies with her. Feeling the bag’s reassuring texture, she picked up the Time-Turner and prepared to spin it.

A haunting, musical coo carried through the office just as Hermione put her finger to the device. She turned around to identify its source and nearly shouted in surprise when she saw it.

Fawkes the phoenix, resplendent in gold and red, was perched on the windowsill as if he had never left a year ago. He looked at her with soulful eyes and emitted another call. Then he lifted his majestic wings and flew straight for Hermione.

She was transfixed, unable to move. The phoenix cooed again and alighted on top of her head.

Flames engulfed her, blazing and intense but somehow not hot.

Then darkness, deep and impenetrable.

Then a sense of falling. Hermione did not think Fawkes was with her any longer.

She hit what felt like stone and crumpled to the ground. Her eyes fluttered shut and her consciousness fled, but but not before she saw blurry faces and heard shocked voices coming closer.

* * *

“Is she awake now?”

“Professor, you mustn’t trouble her!”

“Is she _awake now?”_

“Headmaster—”

Hermione opened her eyes and blinked, waiting for her vision to adjust. She gazed around the room, instantly recognizing where she was. This was the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. She breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever had happened, at least she had not left the castle. Now, had it _worked,_ or had the phoenix’s interference prevented her from making the trip back as she had intended? Someone was addressing someone else as “Headmaster,” which was promising, but Hermione supposed there was still the possibility that she had simply been unconscious for a long time and Hogwarts had chosen a new Head who was not McGonagall.

There was only one way to find out. She cleared her throat, drawing the attention of everyone in the ward. The cluster of people who had been speaking in the corner all turned around to face her.

Hermione squinted. Who _were_ these people? She did not recognize a single face. There was an elderly, frail-looking wizard that she could not place at all; a middle-aged brown-haired wizard in Healer’s robes; and—no wait, that was Professor Slughorn, surely, but why was his hair blond?

A bad feeling came over her.

“Ah, so you are awake,” said the elderly wizard, leading the group to her bedside. “Excellent. You were in rather bad shape when you appeared, you see.”

“I—I was?”

The wizard nodded gravely. “Healer Smythe”—he gestured at the brown-haired wizard—“said that you had clearly been in an encounter with very Dark magic. You were covered in curse marks.”

“Oh,” she said. She had completely forgot about her injuries from the battle, with all that had happened. “Well—I was just in—but no, I should not say too much, really I shouldn’t.”

The disturbingly blond Horace Slughorn ran his beefy hands over the tawny mop on his head. “Should we not wait until Albus arrives, Armando? He should hear whatever our guest has to say too.”

_Albus._  The name sent a thrill of triumph through Hermione. Dumbledore _was_ still alive! She had done it! She had traveled to the past! But something was not right. Slughorn was definitely an old, bald, silver-moustachioed man a year ago. And this Healer and the elderly wizard—she had never seen either of them before. The bad feeling intensified as another idea began to take shape in Hermione’s mind.

The door to the infirmary opened, and in strode Albus Dumbledore. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she looked at him, for his appearance veritably confirmed her newly minted theory.

Albus Dumbledore’s hair and beard were red.

She had gone back _much_ farther than a year. The phoenix had something—no, probably _everything—_ to do with it, though _how,_ she could not figure out. But it had unquestionably happened.

Hermione’s heart began thumping. This was not good. This was not what she had meant to do. A year was not a big deal; she could live out a year. But if she had gone back decades, as it increasingly appeared, this was a really big problem. _Time-Turners cannot send people forward in time,_ she thought despairingly. Surely there was something top secret in the Department of Mysteries, though. There _had_ to be. There just had to. She couldn’t think about the alternative.

The distressingly young Albus Dumbledore joined the cluster of people and beamed kindly at Hermione. “Welcome to Hogwarts,” he said. “I am Albus Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster. This”—he gestured at the elderly wizard—“is Headmaster Armando Dippet. Here we have Professor Horace Slughorn and Healer Percival Smythe.”

“I—” Hermione broke off. “Hermione. Hermione— _Green.”_ She did not know what made her say it, but instinctively it seemed like a really bad idea to use her real name. She was going to come here as an innocent student in the future. It wouldn’t do for these people to know who she was when that time came.

Healer Smythe smiled kindly. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Green. I apologize, but I must return to my other patients. I’m glad that you are awake and well.” He left the ward, closing the door behind him.

Hermione gazed at the professors. “I’m sorry, but what is the date?”

Dippet nodded, looking as if he had expected that question. “Monday, September 4, 1944, Miss Green.”

Hermione gasped and sank back into the pillows, winded. _1944!_

The wizards shared uncertain glances. “Are we correct to assume, then, that you have traveled back in time?” Dippet asked.

Hermione nodded.

“We all thought so, given the presence of this on your person.” He withdrew from his robes a shattered, burnt, twisted object. Hermione gasped again as she recognized the remains of the Time-Turner that she had attempted to use. “And might I inquire as to when—what date, that is to say—that you left?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but shut it at once. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’d really rather not say. This has been a big mistake. I did mean to travel back in time, but only a year—and I will tell you this much; it has been more than that.”

The professors frowned contemplatively. Dumbledore spoke this time. “At the present, Miss Green, it is not possible to travel back in time more than about three months.”

Hermione groaned.

“Clearly, some advances in the field have been made by your time, but you speak of it being a ‘mistake’—in what way? What happened?”

“Your phoenix, Fawkes, actually,” she whispered.

Dumbledore’s eyes widened; clearly he had not expected that answer.

“I had the Time-Turner in hand, ready to use it, but he alighted on me and flamed, and then I just—time-traveled,” she said lamely. “I had no idea a phoenix could do that.”

Dumbledore thought about it. “Phoenixes have many powers,” he mused. “It is, for instance, not commonly known, but a phoenix can use its fire to transport a wizard—or witch, of course,” he added respectfully—“great distances, sometimes even overcoming Apparition wards. My theory is that since you were holding a Time-Turner, Fawkes was able to infuse the device with some of his own magic when he burst into flames, increasing its capacity—at least for a single trip. Of course, it also destroyed the device to do so.”

Hermione groaned again. _“Why,_ though? Why would he want to do that?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “They are also enigmatic creatures, Miss Green. I should point out as well that, to the best of my knowledge, there is still only one Fawkes present. He did go through a burning on the day you arrived, so it is possible that there was a loop and that Fawkes of your time was reborn in it… a circle without a beginning, as it were….”

Hermione closed her eyes. 1944! This was a disaster. She _had_ to get back. “Professor, do you think it is possible that the Department of Mysteries might have access to time-travel devices more powerful than the wizarding public knows about?”

The professors exchanged unhappy looks. “It is important that you do not speak of this to anyone, Miss Green,” Dippet said, “because it is secret information. But I can tell you that the Unspeakables definitely do not have anything that can send someone forward in time.”

Hermione’s heart sank.

“The future is fluid,” Dumbledore explained. “There are many, countless ways it could happen. However, from your perspective—before you made your trip—the past, to you, was written, definite, concrete. You could continue to go deeper into the past from this date, of course, but you cannot now go forward, even to dates that formerly would have been in the past to you. They are not anymore.”

“Is that _definite_ or only theoretical, Professor?” she whispered.

“Theoretical,” the professor said sympathetically. “It is not a proven theory. But… Miss Green, even if new discoveries were to be made, we have no way of knowing when. You may be with us for quite some time. I know this is difficult for you to adjust to, but you must consider establishing a life for yourself here and now.”

Hermione closed her eyes. It _was_ too much. This had been a horrible idea. She should have just accepted that the battle had been a terrible event, mourned her friends, and attempted to continue her life in 1998. Instead she had tried to do the very thing that Dumbledore himself had tried to do, reverse the deaths of people she loved.

It had cost him his life in the end.

It had cost her _everything._


	2. Pit of Vipers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the interest! I hope you like my "Fawkes capacitor" explanation of the time leap. It's never satisfactorily explained in the text how Dumbledore was able to Apparate away from Fudge and Umbridge by latching on to the bird, but I can work with that.
> 
> I'm posting this chapter quickly because this school stuff is fairly routine and I don't want to delay the story too long with it. Don't expect updates to happen this often throughout the story.

That afternoon, as soon as she was able—and the Healer allowed her to leave the ward—Hermione requested a private meeting with Dumbledore. Dippet seemed vaguely affronted when she made the request.

“I’m sorry, Headmaster, but in my old time, I knew Professor Dumbledore best,” she explained. It would hardly do to give the man information about his own death, especially since the professors apparently had no idea just how _far_ back she had traveled. For all they knew, she could have come from about a decade in their future.

And that was how she found herself sitting in what she remembered as Professor McGonagall’s office, though Dumbledore’s familiar collection of instruments and notes currently filled it.

The wizard sat behind the desk, regarding her benevolently. Hermione’s feelings warred with each other. Just before she had left, she had received a jolt of information about just _how_ much of a manipulative bastard this man could be. Snape’s memories were really far more horrifying than any information about a three-month friendship with Gellert Grindelwald 100 years earlier. But he hadn’t done any of those things _yet,_ and it was still so pleasant to _see_ him again, she couldn’t make herself resent him too much. The phoenix Fawkes sat placidly on his perch, occasionally looking at her with intelligent eyes. She could not tell whether he knew what he had done—whether this was, indeed, _her_ Fawkes—or not.

“Basically, Professor, I would not have considered going back in time even a year if not for the fact that”—she considered for a second, unsure of how much information to divulge. Then something occurred to her. _I was covered in curse marks,_ she recalled. They already knew something had happened. “There was a battle at Hogwarts in the time that I left,” she said bluntly. “Many people were dead, including most of my friends.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened in alarm.

“I was desperate and stressed and upset, and I found that Time-Turner in the Headmaster’s office, and I just didn’t think. I certainly didn’t think anything like _this_ could happen. I am generally not so reckless or irresponsible.” Her voice was pleading.

Dumbledore leaned forward. “Miss Green, our hearts are both the best and the worst parts of us. I do not know how far in the future you come from, and do not particularly wish to know, but I think your ‘accident’ happened for a reason.”

“Why, Professor?”

“Why do I think that, or are you asking me what I think the reason is?”

“The first,” she replied at once.

His eyes twinkled. “Naturally. You are a rational person, I can tell that, but had you meant the other, I would have had to tell you that I have no idea what the reason is. I do, however, believe there is one, because of the fact that Fawkes enabled your journey.”

“Fawkes,” she repeated.

“It is problematic to consider any magical beasts as _evil,”_ Dumbledore said, “because even those that are very dangerous are merely predators, much like non-magical predatory animals. I am not, of course, speaking of Dark creatures. But it is true that some species of magical creature are associated with _good_ magic, and phoenixes are among them. Their tears are the ultimate healing medicine, and their quills can power wand cores. They are very wise, very powerful, and as I said once before, very enigmatic animals. Their life cycle itself is enigmatic. Are they eternal? We don’t know.”

Hermione would have found his musings on the nature of phoenixes highly interesting in any other situation, but at the moment, his tendency to head down rabbit trails was a little annoying. “So you think I have a purpose for being here because Fawkes was involved,” she repeated, not skeptically, but trying to accept the idea by saying it. “What about the timeline that I remember? If I have a purpose, doesn’t that mean I’m meant to change something? The timeline was awful, Professor. Fawkes could not have brought me back here in order to _preserve_ it, if he was doing it as a form of ‘good’ magic.”

Dumbledore considered, nodding. “I think it is probable that you are meant to change something, yes. What, I do not know—and please, again, do not tell me when you are from in the hopes of deducing what it is. If we are right about this, it will be something you have to discover for yourself.”

Hermione felt exasperated. “But Professor, I could do something to wipe myself out! I could create a paradox! I was told repeatedly in my third year, when I was issued a Time-Turner to take extra classes, that it was dangerous.”

“Ah, but you would have been issued a very basic model. It _is_ possible, even in this time, to have a Time-Turner that does not allow its user to create a paradox. The magic required to do so is quite difficult, from what I have read, and so it is not used except in devices that can travel back those greater amounts of time. There would have been little reason to charm your third year Time-Turner to do that.”

“But— _how?”_

Dumbledore shook his head. “This is beyond me, Miss Green, but I believe it has to do with the creation of magical anchors in the new time. Your existence here is dependent not on what happened in a future that is no longer even set in stone, but on the fact that you _did_ appear in this time, brought here by a Time-Turner that anchored you here. It is not a loop, you see. Your appearance in this time will always be true, because of the way the device was enchanted.”

Hermione was overwhelmed. “At some point, there will be two of me.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me that at the moment, you—the, ah, other you, that is to say—have not yet been born?”

 _Damn._  She had not meant to give anything away, but that had slipped out before she realized the implications of it. She would have to be more careful. There seemed no way around this one, though. “That’s correct, Professor,” she said.

He looked troubled. “You have gone farther back than I had been supposing, then,” he said. “Tell me two things, if you will, please. First—is Hermione Green your real name, and how old are you?”

“My name _is_ Hermione, but my surname is actually Granger,” she said quietly. “I thought it might be a bad idea to give that name.”

“That was very quick thinking.”

Hermione smiled faintly at the compliment. “And I am eighteen years old. I left my time early in May, so it should have been my seventh year, but due to the same conflict that ended in the battle, I was unable to attend Hogwarts for any of that year.”

Dumbledore looked very concerned at this. “Why is that?”

“I am Muggle-born,” she said, “and in my time, it was basically illegal for me to _exist.”_ The professor’s eyes widened and then narrowed in anger, but she continued. “We were prohibited from attending Hogwarts. I did attend through six years, but then something happened….” She trailed off, unwilling to say anything else.

“And that terrible event is what you intended to prevent by going back in time a single year,” he deduced. “I see. Clearly, though, Fawkes understood that there was much more damage that needed to be repaired.” He looked up and met her eyes with his blue ones. “Miss Green, if you cannot be sent back to your own time, then it should still be possible to send the other you—the one that is not yet born—back in time to yesterday, since we know that it is supposed to happen. Fawkes himself may make it happen once again when the time comes. In fact, it is very likely that he will.”

“Professor,” she began despairingly, “I _can’t_ stay here the rest of my life. I wanted to save my friends.”

He looked at her with old, sad eyes. “And you may well do that. But it may also be that you will not be saving them for _yourself.”_

“Professor—”

He put up a hand. “Miss Green, we cannot send you back. I have no idea if it will ever be possible. Since you are here, and since you did not get to take your seventh year, what I can offer you is the opportunity to do so. You can gain your educational credentials and make a chance for yourself in this time, and along the way, I hope you will discover whatever it is that you are supposed to do.”

Hermione understood that his words were final, meant not to comfort her, but to get her used to the idea. She slumped in the chair. Tears came to her eyes, but she nodded.

“Obviously, we cannot tell the rest of the school that you are a time-traveler. Professor Slughorn and Headmaster Dippet are already sworn to secrecy on the matter, of course, as am I. We have agreed that you must have a plausible cover story. And if Muggle-borns are persecuted in your future, it is probably best that your cover story be something other than that you come from an unknown family of Muggles—not to mention that it would be difficult to explain why you did not attend Hogwarts from your first year.” He considered. “I do not know how much you know of my background—”

“Quite a bit, actually, Professor,” Hermione said with a grin.

“Then you know that my mother was purportedly Muggle-born?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded. “She wasn’t—not really. Or perhaps she was, but all Muggle-borns are mislabeled and are actually Squib-born. That is my guess. In her case, she was the daughter of a Muggle and a Squib.”

“Ah,” Hermione said, understanding. So _that_ was why, according to Rita Skeeter’s biography, Kendra Dumbledore had denied being Muggle-born.

“She had a younger brother, to all appearances a Muggle, but it is probably fair to consider him a Squib as well. He married a woman who was a known Squib from a minor wizarding family, which is now extinct. The daughter was the last. They had no children… but since we are speaking of people who were not recorded by those witches and wizards who obsess about magical bloodlines, it should be easy enough to forge records of their Squib daughter—my first cousin, that is to say—and her Muggle husband Green—and yourself. You were taught magic by a private tutor, let us say.”

“So—I am to be passed off as your half-blood first cousin once removed,” she said slowly, thinking it out.

Dumbledore nodded. “Unless you have an objection?” he asked kindly. “It would be safest of all if we could pass you off as a pureblood, but they keep track of genealogy too well.”

“I have no objections at all,” Hermione said. A smile formed on her face. “And I thank you for—well, taking responsibility for me by doing that.”

“No trouble at all, Miss Green,” he said benevolently. He stood up. “Now, the new term begins tonight. The students will be arriving in the next hour or two. I will tell Professors Dippet and Slughorn what your cover story will be, and in the meantime, you should come down to the Great Hall to be Sorted with the new students.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “But Professor, I’ve already been Sorted, at age eleven!”

“Of course, of course… but I suspect, Miss Green, that we Sort too soon. If you are here for a reason, to change something, then we should let the Sorting Hat have its say. Your House placement may be important.”

Hermione wanted to protest, but she realized it was futile. _Oh well,_ she thought. _I’ll still be in Gryffindor._ She stood up, reached into her robes to feel her beaded bag, and followed the professor downstairs.

* * *

By the time the school train arrived, Dippet and Slughorn had been told the cover story. Slughorn seemed very jovial about it, almost as if it pleased him to be able to talk about teaching “Professor Dumbledore’s cousin.” _It probably does,_ Hermione thought sourly as she waited. _Always glad to boast of a student with an important connection, even if it’s a fabricated one and he knows it. Bloody Slytherins._

Mercifully, Dippet had decided to have Hermione Sorted before any of the new first years. She was immensely relieved. She knew she was going to be a spectacle and a source of gossip as soon as her presence was announced, but it would be less so if her Sorting took place before, rather than after, the first years’.

The students filed into the castle, the little ones looking scared and anxious as they headed to the front of the Great Hall, the rest of them looking excited, smug, bored, and—for a few of them—disdainful as they took their seats at the House tables.

“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts,” Dippet said. “Before we begin Sorting our new first years, I have an announcement to make. We also have a new seventh year, a cousin of our own Professor Dumbledore, who will be joining us for her final year of magical education. Please welcome Miss Hermione Green.”

Hermione walked to the stool to the applause of the students. She looked out at the Great Hall, noting curiosity on the faces of most, before Dumbledore dropped the Sorting Hat on her head.

 _“Ah, you are quite a paradox, aren’t you?”_ the hat’s voice spoke in her head, emphasizing the word “paradox.”

Hermione jolted. _“You just said that to get my attention, didn’t you? Well, you have it now,”_ she thought.

The hat chuckled. _“Your memories say I’ve Sorted you before, but I have no such memories of that. A paradox indeed, Miss… Green, is it, this time?”_

_“Get on with it. You know what to do.”_

_“I Sort the students of Hogwarts, yes. But what to do with_ you, _what indeed….”_

Hermione was on the verge of losing her temper. When did the Sorting Hat become _snarky?_

 _“You are not the person you were at age eleven,”_ it said suddenly.

 _“What?”_ A sense of dread suddenly filled Hermione.

 _“You have had to learn how to survive at any cost. You have had to look the other way when your friends and mentors revealed that they were flawed, broken human beings, because of the greater good.”_ The hat placed peculiar emphasis on the last two words, and Hermione shivered. Did it _know_ what that phrase meant to her now?

_“You yourself have known darkness. You have been ruthless. My, my, what is this—capturing a journalist, confining her in insect form, and blackmailing her into writing what you wished. My goodness. Watching your best friend use the Imperius Curse on innocent goblins to steal from Gringotts. You would have cast it yourself, had it been you, would you not?”_

_Yes, and I would have done it better._ Hermione did not voice the thought in conversation with the hat, but it seemed to hear her anyway, for it chuckled again.

_“And your parents’ memories—”_

_“We’re not discussing that,”_ Hermione said sharply in thought. To this day she was unsure if she had done the right thing.

 _“As soon as you entered the magical world and learned that there were people who were prejudiced against you, you were determined to prove them wrong. To_ prove yourself,” the hat said pointedly. _“You seized every opportunity. No, Miss_ Granger, _your new name is well-chosen, for this time, you belong in SLYTHERIN!”_

The hat shouted the final word to the whole hallway. Hermione sat on the stool, shell-shocked. She had had an inkling of where this might go as soon as the hat implied it was not going to place her in Gryffindor again, but she assumed it would be Ravenclaw. This—

She realized she had to get up. Without even looking at Dumbledore, she walked stiffly to the Slytherin table, which was applauding her only halfheartedly. Several faces looked outright suspicious.

 _They know I don’t have a pureblood surname and they think I’m related to Dumbledore,_ she thought unhappily as she sat down on the bench.

The black-haired, sour-faced girl sitting to her left peered at her. Her face looked vaguely familiar to Hermione, but she could not place it. She nudged her friend on her other side, a brunette with short, curly, immaculately coiffed hair, who smirked and tried to stifle a laugh. Hermione glared back at them. So her hair wasn’t styled into a perfect 1940s fashion. _Whatever._

Dippet was now welcoming the first years to Hogwarts and beginning the traditional Sorting. Hermione felt relieved that the attention of most students—except, it seemed, the older Slytherins—was not on her anymore. She gazed up at the staff table. Dumbledore looked back at her impassively. His expression was completely unreadable. Hermione remembered that she had not told him _where_ she had previously been Sorted, so perhaps he was not as surprised as she was. Or perhaps he was _worried_ instead. She looked away and glanced at Slughorn, who met her eyes and beamed.

 _At least one person is happy I’m here,_ she thought. For some reason, the idea that Slughorn was pleased to have her in his House cheered her. Whatever else he might be, he was a good person who took care of his chosen students very well. He had been thrilled with her participation in the Slug Club in her sixth year, after all.

The first years were soon Sorted, each House gaining about eight new members. Hermione thought that classes were a little larger in her time, but it probably made sense given the boom in the Muggle population in the intervening time. Most of the difference was likely made up of Muggle-born and half-blood students. The idea brought a smirk to her face.

“And now,” Professor Dippet said with a smile, “let us feast!” He stepped away from the podium and Hermione smiled as food appeared on the table before her. She picked up her knife and fork and began to cut into a steak.

She was enjoying her meal when the girl on her right tapped her shoulder. Hermione swallowed her food, set down her utensils, and turned to her. She was black-haired like the unpleasant-looking girl on Hermione’s left, but her face was not unkind. Her hair, too, was curled into a nice-looking 40s style, not left to hang down her back greasily like the other girl’s.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said in businesslike tones. “I am Lucretia Black, seventh year Slytherin prefect.”

“Hermione Green—but of course you heard that.” She shook Lucretia’s hand.

“The girl on your left is my cousin Walburga, and to _her_ left is Druella Rosier. We are your year-mates and you will be sharing your dormitory with us. Druella is betrothed to Walburga’s little brother Cygnus Black. He’s a fourth year.”

 _What?_ Hermione suddenly knew she had to keep her face in place and not betray that it seemed outrageous and archaic for seventeen-year-olds—let alone _fourth years—_ to be _betrothed_ to each other in Britain in the 1940s. But of course, she knew it had to be a hardline pureblood thing. Otherwise they might decide they wanted to marry someone with less than ancient wizarding blood, after all. She knew it, and she could _not_ let these people see what she thought about it. She had to pretend that it made no impression on her.

Another realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. Walburga Black looked familiar to Hermione because she had _seen_ her before, as a shrieking, mad portrait. This was Sirius’s _mother._ And— _oh my God—_ Cygnus and Druella, they were the parents of—of—

A mad cackling female voice filled Hermione’s memories. A knife on her arm, cutting a vile word into her flesh. _Crucio._ Polyjuice. Gringotts. A burning cup. Ron and Ginny, dead in flashes of green. Hermione clutched her wand instinctively. It was no longer the wand she had purchased from Ollivander, but the one she had taken from Bellatrix Lestrange at Malfoy Manor.

 _Great Merlin,_ she thought. Who _else_ was she going to recognize? What other ghosts from her past, or future, or _whatever,_ would come back to haunt her?

Fate, time, the Sorting Hat, or the bloody phoenix had an evil sense of humor, for as soon as the thought passed through her mind, Lucretia spoke again.

“As I said, I am the female Slytherin seventh-year prefect. We are fortunate this year, because the seventh-year male prefect is also the Head Boy. That’s beneficial to whichever House has a Head Boy or Girl, of course. Tom!” she called out to someone else on the other side of the table.

In moments, a devastatingly handsome young wizard came over. Walburga Black shrieked—Hermione winced; it was already far too similar to how it would sound in her portrait—and scooted down the bench out of the way. The wizard sat down to Hermione’s left and offered a smile and a handshake.

“Tom Riddle, Miss Green. Welcome to Slytherin House.”

 _Oh Merlin, oh God, no._ Hermione glanced at his hand, trying not to look at his eyes. There was no way to avoid a handshake without looking uncouth and suspicious to boot. Neither would do her any favors in Slytherin. He had that ring on his finger. _That ring._ He had killed his father. Was it a Horcrux already? Hermione shuddered, shaking his hand and pulling away as quickly as she could without it being rude.

He seemed vaguely put off that she did not want to look him in the eye. “Are you all right, Miss Green?” he asked in what he must have thought sounded like a considerate tone.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Just nervous.” It wasn’t even a lie, after all, though it might be the understatement of the year. Of _fifty-four_ years.

He smiled coolly. “It passes. Perhaps it would pass sooner if you got to know some of us.”

Hermione would have preferred to get to know shrieking, bigoted Walburga Black.

“So—Dumbledore’s cousin, is it?” Riddle said.

 _And so the interrogation begins,_ Hermione thought. “Yes—first cousin once removed, on his mother’s side,” she recited glibly.

“Right. And how is it that you’re just now coming to Hogwarts? Why now?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at his blunt questioning, but continued with the story she and Dumbledore had elaborated after their private meeting. “I had a tutor,” she said. “Professor Dumbledore and my parents thought it a good idea for me to be educated away from Hogwarts until I was of age. Wanted to avoid the appearance of nepotism, you know.” She plastered a fake smirk on her face at the word “appearance,” hoping to imply to these snakes that the appearance of it was all that she objected to.

Riddle smirked back, sending another shudder down Hermione’s back, not least because it did not reach his eyes. They were not red, but dark brown, but they were cold as ice.

“Is that so,” he said, not really as a question, not even asking—or speaking—to her. “How interesting.”

Hermione shrugged. “Thank you, but I know it isn’t really.” She tilted her head up, braving his eyes for a moment. “What about you? You… you must be a very good student, to be Head Boy.” It sounded dumb, but she could think of nothing else to say.

“Oh, Riddle has been top of the class ever since first year,” Lucretia Black put in. “No one has seriously competed with him, not even those Ravenclaws.”

“Indeed,” Hermione said, trying not to sound too impressed. “Well, he’ll have some competition this year.” _Oh no, why did I say that? Am I trying to bait him—Voldemort?_

Riddle, however, did not seem offended. He raised his eyebrows. “I presume you mean yourself? I look forward to it.” There was an undercurrent of challenge in his voice, and a strong thread of arrogance. It was obvious that he did not believe for a moment that anyone could challenge him on the academic front.

 _Sod it._ She might have just been sorted into the snake house, but Hermione still had Gryffindor qualities, whatever that old hat might say. She was not going to let a seventeen-year-old Voldemort intimidate her, not when she had faced his horrifying inhuman older version.

“So do I,” Hermione said fiercely. “I cannot _wait_ for classes to begin tomorrow.”

He smiled another of those insincere smiles. “I hope you don’t find that you have overrated your magical skills with no one to compare yourself to until now. No one your own age, that is,” he said. “Teachers always hold back from what they are truly capable of. I think you’ll soon learn, Miss Green, that _I_ do not.”

He turned to his plate, which had magically appeared in front of his new place at the table, and continued with his meal.

As soon as the chills stopped flowing over her skin, Hermione tried to finish hers as well. But one thought kept passing through her mind, no matter how hard she tried to push it out. _That was a threat,_ she thought. _Barely one hour and I’ve already been warned by Voldemort himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have kept, or only slightly adjusted people's birthdates from the Black Family Tree if they are reasonable. I've nudged the dates of Lucretia and Walburga Black forward one year (the document says 1925 for them) so I don't have to invent female OCs for Hermione's dormmates. I have not kept the dates of Cygnus Black or, as you'll see in a future chapter, his father Pollux Black, because they would be teenage fathers if I did. There are other canon, fanon/possible canon, and quasi-canon details that I am changing, but I'll say more about that when they come up.


	3. Target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only chapter 3, and he's already putting her in chains. Oh my.

Hermione had never actually been in the Slytherin common room. She had meant to spy on Draco Malfoy as a second year with Harry and Ron, but her Polyjuice Potion had contained cat hair.

Of course, none of her new housemates expected her to have any knowledge of the common room. _Unlike the Snatchers,_ she thought with a shudder, briefly recalling the time that they were captured.

The common room was very… wizardly. She had to acknowledge that. It was not warm or welcoming, but it had a definable air of magic about it, albeit Dark magic. There _was_ a certain appeal, she had to acknowledge. However, she did not have any particular interest in socializing in the common room. Not tonight. She needed to sleep in a real bed that wasn’t a hospital bed, and she knew she was not alert enough to hold her own in the power jockeying game that passed for socialization in Slytherin. And she definitely had no interest in socializing in a place where she suspected Riddle would be holding court. She had already made herself a target of his “interest,” and she was in no shape to be scrutinized any more tonight. She passed through the common room without comment, drawing surprised looks from several students, and headed to the girls’ dormitory.

Hermione had never had a close relationship with any of the girls in her year in Gryffindor. Her closest female friend at school had been Ginny, and even then they had not had very much in common. Ginny was extroverted, popular, athletic, a good student but not hyper-studious like Hermione. She had never connected with the Gryffindor girls she lived with. In fact, during sixth year, the girls’ dormitory was distinctly an unpleasant place, owing to the below-the-surface feud between her and Lavender Brown. _Over Ron,_ she thought. It was ridiculous to think about, really. She had had a crush on Ron for years, but at some point over the past year, her eyes had been opened to his deficiencies in a way that she could not ignore. Perhaps it was years of being taken for granted and passive-aggressively mocked behind her back finally catching up. Perhaps it was when he lost his temper with Harry and abandoned their mission. Or perhaps it was when she discovered that vile, offensive, patronizing book of his about how to “charm witches”—and she realized that he hadn’t meant any of his compliments, indeed had not even cared about the intellectual or magical skills for which he complimented her. He was not interested in those things at all, which was the root of everything, really. _He was not interested in what she was._ He wasn’t interested in intellectual pursuits or in political or legal matters. She had kissed him in the heat of the battle, but that was just adrenaline. She didn’t regret it; he was gone now, so she couldn’t feel bad about it. But she was well and truly over that infatuation.

Well, at least there shouldn’t be any feuds between her and these Slytherin girls over shared crushes. She was not about to answer for any other topics. Her mind told her that there would probably be very few things she _could_ discuss with these fashion-conscious ( _well, except for Walburga’s ghastly hair,_ she thought smugly—those greasy locks were worse in their way than her own hair), pureblooded, betrothed, probable proto-Death Eater girls. Her heart told her not to be such a pessimist, that nobody was all bad.

And her body told her to bloody get some sleep before she formed any more opinions on the people she was to live with for the next year. Wisely, that was the voice she listened to. She summoned her pyjamas out of her beaded bag, cast an anti-theft jinx on it, and tucked it away under her pillow, falling asleep before any of the girls even turned in.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione awakened early. She wanted to get a shower and attempt to personalize her little corner of the dormitory as well as she could with what was in her beaded bag. She had money, at least, and rather a lot in 1940s terms. It was a good thing, because she knew a trip to Hogsmeade or an owl order was soon going to be necessary. She had not packed any school robes last year, and of course none of her clothes were suitable for the 1940s. She did have a single school robe that Dippet had given her, and after her shower, she put that robe over the least casual articles of Muggle clothing she owned: a white blouse and a pair of black slacks. Hopefully the robe would prevent her from drawing too much attention as a witch who wasn’t wearing a skirt. She supposed she could have Transfigured it, but this was the only remotely appropriate thing she could wear, and she did not really want to take the risk. She was very good at Transfiguration but had never taken much interest in altering her clothing. Later, perhaps she would experiment with some of her denim.

Books were also going to be a problem for a little while. It was ironic; she had books in abundance, but not the seventh year texts, and certainly not the 1940s seventh year texts. There were one or two extra books for each of her classes kept in stock, which she would use until her book order arrived. The thought gave her a pang of discomfort; she remembered how Harry had been so taken by Snape’s old Potions text, but there was no help for it.

As soon as she got out of the bathroom, the girls were awake. Lucretia Black gazed impassively at her, not unfriendly, but appraising. Druella Rosier leered at her with evident disdain. Walburga Black’s features seemed to be twisted into a permanent scowl.

“Good morning,” Hermione said, attempting to ignore the looks that two of her roommates were giving her.

Lucretia nodded. “Morning,” she said. There was no response from the others.

“You know,” Hermione remarked to Walburga, unable to stop herself, “you shouldn’t frown like that all the time. Someone might think it is your default expression and paint a portrait of you with that face, and that would be… unfortunate for you. Represented like that.”

Walburga sneered. “If that happened, I would just cast Incendio at it, Green.”

Hermione shrugged. “It was an analogy, actually. Just free advice.”

“I don’t require your advice.”

“Then don’t take it.” Attempting to put on this Slytherin contempt and indifference as well as her roommates did, she crossed the room to the single unoccupied desk. She summoned her beaded bag and began withdrawing books from it. Suddenly something occurred to her. These girls—two of them, at least, and possibly the third—regarded her as an intruder and looked on her with obvious suspicion and contempt for her supposed connection to Albus Dumbledore. She was going to do something to surprise them.

A collective intake of breath escaped the girls as Hermione summoned the titles of _Magick Moste Evile, Moste Potente Potions, Curses and Counter-Curses,_ and _The Dark Arts: A Legal Companion._ She continued dispassionately, calling forth every book on every dubious subject that she had in her bag. At last, giving them a smile and raised eyebrow, to let them know that she had been aware all along of their notice and reaction, she summoned _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. It flew through the air and slid magically to the end of the bookshelf on the desk. Hermione cast a strong anti-theft jinx over the entire shelf, picked up her beaded bag, put it into her school pack, and stalked confidently out of the dorm room.

* * *

Hermione passed through the Slytherin common room feeling pleased with herself. She had rendered her dormmates speechless and possibly intimidated them into grudging respect with one fell swoop. It was perfectly obvious that they had _not_ expected her to have a trove of books about the Dark Arts. She suppressed a grin at the recognition that, once again, _books_ had helped her out. The world was starting to fall into a familiar, comforting pattern again.

No sooner had that thought passed through her mind than she found herself face to face with an immaculately groomed Tom Riddle. He was apparently waiting for her in the common room. Fate really was making jokes at her expense, she thought.

“Good morning, Miss Green,” he said suavely, a smile spreading over his face. Just like last night, it did not reach his eyes.

“Riddle,” she said curtly in acknowledgment.

The smile vanished. “The fifth year prefects get the task of showing the first years the ropes, so”—he fingered his Head Boy badge very unsubtly—“I thought _I_ might take the opportunity to show _you_ around.”

“Thank you, but Professor Dumbledore told me a lot about the castle,” Hermione said at once. “I’m sure you have better things to do.” _And I’m sure that you have no interest in politeness for its own sake. You want to get me alone to continue interrogating me._

He gave her a calculating gaze. _“I’m_ sure we have the same class schedule, so it only makes _sense_ for you to walk with me, Green.”

“How do you know that?”

“Dippet has shown me everyone’s schedule since I am Slytherin prefect and Head Boy, of course. I confess I took special interest in yours, since you are new. But it would only be natural, wouldn’t it? Since you are so confident that you can _compete_ with me.”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we, Riddle?” she said in an undertone.

He did not reply, but held out an arm for her to take. She did not want to, but at the moment, she had no reason that she could give for being repelled by him, so she took a breath and linked hers.

As she walked with him to the Great Hall for breakfast, Hermione had it occur to her that it was absolutely no wonder that he had most of the school enthralled. It was difficult for Hermione to acknowledge that Riddle was indeed handsome, intelligent, and charismatic, but so it was. And it was all an atrocious, abominable _waste._ Next to her was a person who could be literally anything that he wanted. He could be Minister for Magic in fifteen years. _She_ certainly would have wanted to pursue a high-level Ministry job if she had been able to fix her future. And he was going to choose instead to destroy his good looks, destroy his intellect and reasoning ability, destroy his very humanity, in order to lead an outlaw terrorist group of inbred troglodytes with an obsolete ideology that could never sustain a viable society. It was such a waste, it sickened her.

They reached the Great Hall and sat down at the Slytherin table. Breakfast appeared before them, and they began to eat. Riddle was studying her, not saying anything, which puzzled her, but what was infuriating was that she could not _ask_ him why he wasn’t subjecting her to interrogation.

They finished their breakfast, and at _last_ he turned to her with that calculating look in his eyes.

 _I guess the pretense of politeness is gone for good,_ she thought. For some reason, it relieved her.

“Now, Miss Green, let’s go to Potions, shall we?”

 _Ugh._  So he wasn’t going to be polite about it, but he still wasn’t going to openly voice his intentions. She supposed she shouldn’t have expected it. This wasn’t Gryffindor, after all. _And I have to remember that._

* * *

Hermione sometimes wondered about the differences between Professor Snape and Professor Slughorn as Potions masters. It was paradoxical, but Snape—despite being _much_ more personally innovative in Potions than Slughorn—unquestionably preferred that his students stick to the book, while Slughorn liked to foster creative thinking in his students. She had thrived in Snape’s class, at least as well as any Gryffindor could, while struggling more in Slughorn’s.

It had been a hard lesson for her to accept, especially since she witnessed Harry cheating his way through the class all sixth year—at least, that was how she saw it at the time. She was no longer sure it was clear-cut cheating anymore. He _had_ taken credit for Snape’s creativity, but he had done all the potion-making himself. And Hermione, irritated at the situation, spitefully sabotaged her own performance, pigheadedly sticking to Slughorn’s text, telling herself that whole year that it was somehow more “honorable” to get Es for her “official” work than to “break the rules” and attempt to innovate as the Half-Blood Prince had.

The seventh year, the year on the run, had completely dispelled _that_ notion from her mind.

The creative thinking was always there. She had had the brilliant thought of using fake Galleons with a Protean Charm for Dumbledore’s Army, and then there had been that pox curse she had invented for the DA membership list. Now, after that year of making do with what resources were available to her, after getting stuck in _1944_ with a young _Voldemort,_ she knew that she had to call up that part of her and not let it go. It was the only way she could get through this.

That was how she found herself partnered with Riddle in NEWT Potions, at his insistence, and periodically exchanging increasingly hostile glares with him as they competed with each other to see who could answer Slughorn’s questions first. The rest of the class sported various expressions: enjoyment from the Slytherins, who were benefiting from it greatly in House points, and sourness from everyone else.

“Very _good,_ Miss Green, very good!” Slughorn was exclaiming happily as Hermione correctly identified Veritaserum. “Now, can anyone tell me—of course, Tom, of course.”

Hermione had already noticed that Slughorn tended to call Riddle by his first name, even in class.

“It’s Felix Felicis, sir,” he said, shooting a smug grin at Hermione. She had put her hand up as well.

“Five _more_ points to Slytherin! Excellent, excellent.” He winked at the two, evidently oblivious to the miasma of competitive hostility between them. “I’m sure the two of you could identify every potion I have in my private stock, but we must begin class. Today we are going to brew the Oculus Potion….”

When class was over—Riddle and Hermione earning full points, of course—he grabbed her arm roughly, completely dispensing with the gentlemanly gesture of offering her his, to “escort” her to the next class. He was clearly quite put out that, in one subject at least, her boast the previous night had not been a mere bluff.

The same pattern occurred in all of their classes that day, and the following day, except for one.

Hermione had been nervous about Defense Against the Dark Arts from the start. That was the one subject in which she had not earned an “Outstanding” OWL, although it was solely because she had not performed particularly well in the practical dueling part of the examination. She liked to think that, after _that year,_ she would manage an O. She had, after all, held off Bellatrix Lestrange in a duel, although Ginny and Luna had helped her. _At least until Ginny was—_

Hermione banished that thought. It wasn’t going to happen this time. She would fix it.

In this time, the course was taught by a witch named Galatea Merrythought who looked about the same age as Professor McGonagall in 1998. Professor Merrythought began the class with an impromptu question-and-answer session about theoretical knowledge. That was quite all right, and for a while, Hermione had the pleasure of watching Riddle seethe as her hand shot up into the air again and again to answer the professor’s questions.

 _“You really are an insufferable swot,”_ he hissed after she correctly answered a question from Merrythought about Inferi. Hermione beamed back, watching him breathe in and out furiously.

Then Merrythought smiled. “Well, now that Miss Green has answered all my questions—no, I’m sorry, Mr. Riddle, you _did_ answer the question about Patronuses, I apologize—we’re going to have a review of practical dueling. Choose a partner, and remember to observe the rules of dueling! If I see _anyone_ dueling dirty, I _will_ take House points.”

“You and me,” Riddle said at once.

Hermione had expected it, though her pulse started to race at once. The look he was giving her was calculating, smug, and—disturbingly—vengeful. She suddenly had a bad feeling about this.

“On your feet!” Merrythought called out. The students got out of their desks. Merrythought waved her wand, levitating all the desks at once toward the high classroom ceiling, and cast a heavy net to hold them suspended if she had to intervene in anyone’s duel.

“Wands out! One—two—three— _now!”_

He was far too fast. Immediately he slammed her with a nonverbal Reductor Curse. Hermione gasped as a blast of magic seemed to punch her in her gut, knocking the wind out of her. She flew backward several feet and nearly careened into the nearest dueling pair.

Smirking, Riddle cast another curse. Chains shot from his wand, wrapping around her. He really didn’t have to have them curl _this_ tightly, Hermione thought in embarrassment and anger. She flicked her wrist, which was still free, and sent a Stupefy back at him, but he deflected it with a look of utter contempt on his handsome features.

 _“Really,_ Green?” he said in an undertone. “Fourth-year magic, at best?”

He cast a nonverbal spell, and to Hermione’s horror, her wand sailed out of her hand into his. The duel was over almost as quickly as it had begun.

Professor Merrythought hurried over, obviously very disappointed that the duel between her two most promising students had turned out so one-sided and ended so soon. “Well done, Mr. Riddle,” she said, making an effort to sound congratulatory. “Well done. Perhaps you should give Miss Green her wand back and make another go of it.”

Riddle looked disturbingly eager, but Hermione was not going to let herself be humiliated this way again. “Actually, Professor, I’d like to try with another dueling partner first.”

She had allowed her anxiety to get to her. She shouldn’t have been _that_ easy to defeat. But at the same time, he was _fast,_ and he thought quickly. A Stupefy? _Really,_ Hermione chastised herself as the professor vanished her chains, _I should have thought of something better than that. He’s actually right._

It left a sour taste in her mouth to acknowledge that Riddle was right about _anything,_ but it was unavoidable. She had to be faster than that, and she could _not_ let him get to her in _any_ circumstance.

* * *

The week progressed. Hermione found herself quickly falling back into the familiar pattern of excelling in class—and being socially ostracized by most of the people she lived with. The seventh year Slytherin girls were no longer openly mocking her, perhaps due to the prominent display of her menacing (and cherry-picked) Dark Arts collection—which no one else could touch—but neither did they become friendly. Lucretia Black was decent enough, and was never uncivil, but she also never seemed to open up. Her interactions were all very businesslike. Walburga avoided Hermione, barely acknowledging her existence. And Druella Rosier— _she_ was acting very odd indeed, giving Hermione shifty looks and occasional, quickly suppressed smirks. It was as if she anticipated something. Hermione had seen enough of Slytherins already to know that when one of them anticipated something unknown to her, and would not give any hints about what it was, it probably was not a good thing.

The next Monday, a week after she awoke in the Hospital Wing, something finally happened that revealed what Druella had been on about. After another Potions lesson in which Slughorn praised her and Riddle to the sky, Riddle grabbed Hermione’s arm, pulled her into the empty classroom next to Potions, and pointed his wand at her chest.

 _Here it is,_ she thought. _I’ve already made myself a target, and he’s had enough. So much for any great purpose to this trip._ Then she realized that of course he wasn’t going to commit murder in the castle with students going to and from class just behind the door.

 _Ugh, I really, really should not let myself get so frightened of him._ She summoned her courage and said, as boldly as she could manage, “What’s your problem, Riddle?”

He frowned. It was obviously an attempt at a morally outraged frown, but he was not pulling it off. He wanted something.

“I have received a very disturbing report about you, Miss Green,” he said. “Someone has informed me that you are keeping a collection of extremely dangerous books on the Dark Arts in your dormitory, on the shelf over your writing desk.”

 _That bitch._ Druella had tattled to Riddle about the books.

Hermione sneered back, letting her anger overcome her fear. “And what of it? I like to read. The library has copies of all of them, anyway.”

Riddle moved closer. “No, Green, it doesn’t.”

“And just how would _you_ know what books I have?”

“Because I was given a list of the titles,” he hissed. “It seems that you put a nice little jinx to keep anyone else from touching them, but it didn’t prevent anyone from _looking.”_ He withdrew a piece of folded parchment from his robe pocket and read over it. “Most of them are in the library, yes, but not”—he slid the note under Hermione’s nose, smirking—“ _this_ one.”

He pointed at _Secrets of the Darkest Art._

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Of _course_ he knew about _that_ one. He had almost certainly already read it, though where this time's copy was now, Hermione could not guess. Obviously not the library, though probably not in a Professor’s office either. Perhaps—and with a flash of insight, Hermione realized her guess was almost certainly correct—perhaps Dumbledore had removed this book and stored it in the Room of Hidden Things. There had been books in there even in her time….

“All right, fine, I’ll take your word for that, but what is your point, exactly? Professor Dumbledore looked at _every_ book I brought with me to school. _He_ had no objection to anything.” Hermione lied furiously, hoping he would back off.

 _“Liar,”_ he said menacingly. “You are lying. Dumbledore doesn’t know. He would never approve it.  Why do you have that book, Green?”

“I really don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

The tip of his wand touched her neck. “My business is whatever I want it to be, and you’d best learn that soon. Now, answer me, Green. What is your interest in that book?”

Hermione had suddenly had enough. What an utter _hypocrite._ Or—no, he wasn’t a hypocrite at all. He had no moral objection to a book about Horcruxes. He just didn’t want anyone _else_ to appear interested in the subject. Paranoia about his own misdeeds, or planned misdeeds? _Had_ he made any yet? She needed to find out, somehow. Or— _ugh—_ fear of _competition?_ Of someone _else_ doing the same thing?

Hermione was on the verge of saying something very, very cutting—and very reckless—to him when the door opened. Riddle sheathed his wand at once and plastered a benign smile on his face.

“Oh, Professor Slughorn, I’m sorry, I’ll get to class at once.”

Slughorn beamed at the sight of his two favorite students in a deserted classroom in close quarters. Hermione felt a wave of disgust wash over her as she realized what he was thinking they had been doing in there.

“No worries, no problem at all, Tom. I actually hoped to ask Miss Green something. So if you would wait, like the gentleman you are, and perhaps escort her to her next class afterward?” He winked.

“Of course, sir. It would be a pleasure.” He stood aside.

Slughorn ambled over to Hermione. “Miss Green, I thought I might ask you…. You see, I have a little club here, one made of the most promising students, you know. Of course Tom is a member,” he said with a knowing smile. “It’s a social club, but we also have discussions at our little meetings, and I try to invite people—Ministry people, famous wizards, you know. It’s really an excellent opportunity to make useful connections, and I was hoping you would join.”

“Of course,” Hermione said at once. She actually _had_ liked the Slug Club in her own time, and in the off chance that she did have to remain in this time— _and Riddle hadn’t killed her first—_ she wanted to be in a good position to support herself. “I’m honored, Professor. When is the next meeting?”

“Friday evening in my office, seven o’clock. There will be food and wine, and I think I can get the Ministry Law Enforcement Department Head, Pollux Black. Father of your roommate, Miss Walburga Black. It would be a great opportunity—especially for one _connected to Dumbledore,_ eh?” He winked knowingly at her.

In the corner, Riddle shifted. He had noticed that wink.

“So I’ll see you, no doubt with Tom, am I right?”

Hermione smiled as well as she could. “You will certainly see me, sir.”

“Excellent. Now I suppose we all should get to our next class. Tom?”

Riddle strode forward and took Hermione’s arm in his most perfectly gentlemanlike manner. As soon as Slughorn was out of sight, though, he turned to Hermione with a calculating, absolutely predatory smile.

“We _really should_ get to class,” he purred. “And you _really_ should reconsider answering me when I ask you a question, Miss Green. You have until the Slug Club meeting.”


	4. Too Many Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to bainsidhe (on AO3 and ff.net) for looking over this and advising me to stop italicizing every third word. They're angry with each other, but that's obvious enough as it is.
> 
> I will be very happy if anyone knows what early 90s movie that this chapter title references.

Once the palpitations settled, Hermione was left with her outrage.

Who did Riddle think he was? At this point in time, he was nothing more than a Dark Arts-obsessed bully and pathological liar who abused the power he had been given as prefect and Head Boy. He was a murderer, but he was not yet an infamous terrorist leader. Hermione smiled grimly, back in the common room. She had cast that particular Unforgivable herself, after all. It was in the battle, in a war, but she had still done it, and it had hit target. If he did have a Horcrux—or two—then that was a problem, but she had tracked down the accursed things once and she could do it again. Here, she knew they would be in the school, at least. No, she was not intimidated by him. Well, not that much.

Instead, she was infuriated at the whole exchange. So he thought he could frighten her into explaining the book in her possession, as if she bloody answered to _him?_ He was in for a surprise. What would he do if she didn’t? Tell Slughorn about it? Dippet? He did not have nearly as much leverage as he thought. He would have to reveal that he too had read the tome to be so “morally” outraged about its presence in his fellow student’s personal effects. And that was the other thing. Hermione was not precisely sure of the rules, and she knew that Horcruxes were already banned from the curriculum, but for the foreseeable future, that was _her_ book. She had stolen it, but not this time’s copy.

As Hermione saw it, she had no reason to give him any answer whatever. It was probably nothing more than his own egomaniacal insistence on having control over everyone in his environment, along with a standard Slytherin power game to sort out who was “strong” and who was “weak.” She was not going to blink first.

It was also monumentally irritating that Slughorn believed them to be— _ugh—_ a couple, going to the Slug Club together on Friday, and that Riddle was more than happy to use the man’s misconception to his own advantage. Hermione tried not to let it get to her too much. Perhaps, she thought, she could use it as well. That might surprise the bastard. He was so sure that the notion made Hermione uncomfortable, which was part of why he went along with it in that encounter. The idea of playing along at being the girlfriend, or date, of someone appalling was certainly not new to her. She had already pulled that with Cormac McLaggen in sixth year.

A resigned smile formed on Hermione’s face as she thought about the Slug Club meeting. Yes, that was the thing to do, actually. And she would need help doing it. Slughorn, of all people, would certainly approve an unofficial Hogsmeade visit for her so she could get some robes at Gladrags….

* * *

The rest of the week passed relatively uneventfully. The academic rivalry between them continued, though—oddly, to Hermione’s thinking—not quite as intensely as it had the first week. Perhaps Riddle was biding his time.

 _Let him think that he is,_ Hermione thought with a scoff. _He’ll be surprised._

Friday afternoon, Hermione scurried back from her secret—but teacher-authorized—Hogsmeade visit. Her infinitely useful beaded bag held the large package she had picked up, so no one would be the wiser. She shut herself in the girls’ bathroom and began immediately to arrange her appearance.

Eventually her dormmates turned up. “Green, hurry up!” Druella said angrily. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Getting ready for Slug Club,” Hermione called back cheerfully.

Druella snarled. “He invited _you?_ Or is one of the boys taking you?” From her tone of voice, it was unclear which possibility was more offensive to her. Hermione recalled that Druella Rosier was not a member of the group—she had made some inquiries this week and learned that, in fact, she _was_ the only witch—and that Druella’s arranged fiancé was too young to be invited. Hermione stifled an amused snort.

“Both, actually,” she said silkily through the door. Then it opened, and she stepped out.

She was dressed in a long, sleek evening gown with a slit that reached her knee and a low-cut bodice. It was dark charcoal grey and shimmery. She had accentuated it with opal jewelry.

Hermione was pleased with how her charms and makeup had turned out, since she had not had Parvati Patil or Lavender Brown to help her with them this time. And her hair—well, she was _very_ pleased about that. With the assistance of Sleekeazy—apparently only recently invented—she had again tamed her hair, this time into a fetching 1940s coif.

Druella was seething. “You look good, Green,” she finally bit off. “Wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

“I’m not surprised. You do lack imagination,” Hermione replied without skipping a beat. She narrowed her eyes at the jealous girl. “Really, Rosier? Tattling to the Head Boy about my _books?”_

Druella’s face locked down. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Green.”

Hermione smiled coldly. A brilliant idea had occurred to her in that moment. “Of _course_ not. Though I should be grateful to you, actually. Riddle and I had a delightful conversation about advanced magic due to that stunt of yours.”

Her eyes popped. “You’re going with—”

“Yes. Slughorn was _thrilled,_ let me assure you. He invited me on my own, of course, but Riddle was there, and naturally….” She trailed off, smirking, and picked up her beaded bag. Leaving Druella without another word, she stalked into the Slytherin common room.

He was there, as she had expected, dressed in devastating black dress robes. A contemptuous scowl filled his face, but Hermione could tell that when she walked into the common room, it lifted momentarily before slamming back into place.

“Green,” he said perfunctorily.

She inclined her head. So they weren’t going to pretend to be polite. Just as well. “Riddle,” she replied.

“I suppose you’re ready to go,” he said ungraciously.

“As you see.”

“Then let’s go. It’s nearly seven.” He held out his arm. She linked hers with it and glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.

Finally he seemed to remember his manners, or perhaps it was in spite of himself. “You look nice, Green.”

“Thank you. Likewise for you.”

Hermione noticed the conspicuous absence of Riddle’s clique of boys. She had observed over the last two weeks that he tended to associate with a pack of fifth, sixth, and seventh-year Slytherin boys who called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis, and many of the older ones were Slug Club members. Evidently they had already left. _Or he ordered them to go first,_ she thought. That seemed more likely. It really was like a wolf pack, just like the Death Eaters of her time, and he was obviously the alpha wolf.

As soon as they left the common room and were out of sight of the portrait, Hermione understood why he had, indubitably, ordered his “followers” to go without him. His face filled with that same predatory look she had seen on Monday, and he shoved her against the wall and took out his wand.

“It’s a five-minute walk to Slughorn’s office,” he said in a low hiss. “You have five minutes to explain to me what you are doing with that Dark Arts book.”

Hermione’s pulse started to race again. She attempted to put on a show of indifference, even surprise. “You have actually thought about that all week? Listen, Riddle, I don’t owe you an explanation for any book I own. Why do you think you have the right to interrogate me about my personal possessions?”

“You and I both know that there is _no_ legitimate reason for you to study the magic in that book.”

“Oh, so you’re no longer feigning innocence yourself, I see,” Hermione said hotly and recklessly. “Good to know. Now, let me make sure of this. By your own admission, the book is not in the Hogwarts Library, but you also just admitted you know what its content is. So why, may I ask, have _you_ read it?”

She had intended to knock him off balance, but to her surprise, his face filled with smug satisfaction. “Clever, aren’t you,” he said in a low tone. “As it happens, Green, I take an academic interest in all kinds of magic.”

Hermione scoffed. “Of _course_ you do. Maybe so do I, then. Has that ever crossed your mind?”

“It would be a great deal more believable that you were telling the truth about this if you weren’t _lying_ about what you are doing for Dumbledore.”

Hermione stopped cold. Her mouth opened, and her eyes widened. She immediately slammed her features back in place, but there was no doubt in her mind that he had seen it. A cold triumph filled his eyes.

She attempted to recover from the mistake. “I have never said I was doing anything for Professor Dumbledore, so I can’t be lying. Why do you think that, anyway? Are you just so much of a liar yourself that you assume everyone around you is too?”

He glared. “I know you’re lying about something, and that it relates to Dumbledore, because I _saw_ how Slughorn winked at you when he said you were connected to Dumbledore. There is a secret, Green; I’m not _stupid,_ and I can tell that you are up to something for him. And apparently Slughorn knows—or thinks he does,” he sneered disdainfully, “and is keeping your secret.”

Hermione suddenly had it cross her mind that she could draw this out until Slughorn made his appearance in the hallway. She could bluff and generally infuriate Riddle, but it would be a way to stall for time until he simply could not get the information that he wanted. At least right now.

“Riddle,” she said in a hiss, “I recommend that you stop being so paranoid. It does your intelligence no credit. Not everything is a sinister plot.”

He sneered. “That’s facile, Green. You can do better.”

“You assume that everything that goes on must have some connection to you,” she continued, as if she had not heard his comment at all. “What do you think I’m ‘doing,’ exactly? Do you think Dumbledore told me to spy on you and gave me that Dark Arts book because he suspects you have read it too?” She scoffed. “Oh, I forgot; you don’t think he knows I have it. So what is it, Riddle? What do you imagine I am doing? Or is this nothing coherent at all, just your paranoia and arrogant presumption that everything is about you?”

He was breathing heavily, almost too angry to speak, but finally managed to get words out. “I _will_ find out your secret, Green,” he said. His words were intense, meaningful, and hissed right into her ear. “I will find it out, one way or another. I _always_ discover secrets, no matter how deeply buried they are.”

A chill shot down Hermione’s back. Was that a reference to what it sounded like?

The patter of heavy, rapidly approaching footsteps filled the hall. _Slughorn,_ Hermione thought with relief.

Her relief lasted about one tenth of one second. Just before Slughorn rounded the corner, Riddle leaned all the way in and planted his lips on her cheek. His hands found her waist. The fabric of her grey gown suddenly seemed _far_ too thin.

Hermione wanted to scream and thrash away. She understood what he was doing, on a certain level; he was trying to maintain the façade that they were an item rather than be caught threatening another student in the hallway. But it was—

—Considered objectively, without the baggage of knowing who he was, it actually wasn’t unpleasant, Hermione thought. That thought curdled.

“Oho!” Slughorn exclaimed, extremely pleased at the sight before him.

Riddle jumped away, looking sheepish. Hermione could not believe what a good actor he was when he wanted to be. “Professor,” he said. “I—I think we’ll just go inside now.”

“Of course, m’boy, of course,” Slughorn said genially. “Good evening, Miss Green.” He winked at her.

She could not bring herself to wink back. Instead she silently walked into her Potions instructor’s office.

* * *

She should have seen it coming, but he was dazzling during the meeting. Of course he was, she thought. He always managed to pull this on the teachers, especially Slughorn. Slughorn aided and abetted it, she could tell from tonight, by favoring him in terms of giving him opportunities to shine before their distinguished guest, but he was impressive in his own right.

The guest was, as Slughorn had hinted, Pollux Black, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Hermione could see the resemblance between him and his daughter Walburga. The man had the same greasy, thin black hair. He was starting to go bald, which did him no favors in the looks department, and his face bore the same scowl as his daughter’s most of the time. He actually had lines set around his mouth from frowning.

She was not particularly impressed with him as a wizard or a Ministry Department Head—or, she realized, even a politician. It was impossible for her to understand how the man had got his job. He had no vision, no more than average intelligence, and was not even the head of the Black family. That title apparently went to his first cousin, Arcturus Black, who was Lucretia’s father. Hermione had picked up on an undercurrent of rivalry between Lucretia and Walburga in the dormitory, and this was definitely the source of it.

Perhaps Arcturus had had his cousin placed in an important Ministry position so that he would have influence—Pollux Black certainly seemed to be the sort who would be a malleable tool, Hermione thought disgustedly; his mind was obviously filled with pureblood prejudice and little else—but Arcturus did not want to dirty his own hands with direct involvement. Yes, that made sense. It did not improve her opinion of the man currently before her.

To her surprise, Riddle seemed just as contemptuous of Pollux Black as she was. That was unexpected, she thought, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as she took a glass of wine. Wasn’t he involved in this ideology up to his neck, despite being a half-blood? He certainly had been in fifth year, if Harry’s recollection of the diary Riddle was accurate. And yet, as Pollux Black reeled off one implicitly prejudiced statement after another, Hermione observed Riddle’s face growing stony. Perhaps it was that Black was not interested in someone whose surname was not that of an ancient wizarding line, and he was making it too obvious, and it offended Riddle’s ego. Still, though—

Slughorn tried again to push his favorite students forward. “You know, Pollux, that Mr. Riddle and Miss Green are seventh years. Best students I’ve seen in years!” he shouted. He had clearly had too much wine. “Keep each other on their toes in every class, brilliant pair!”

Pollux smiled insincerely. “I am sure that the Department will be interested in their CVs next summer.”

“Well, unless, of course, Tom has other plans for Miss Green by then,” Slughorn said with an excessively long wink.

Riddle smiled knowingly, one of those empty smiles that did not touch his eyes.

Hermione wanted to retch her supper onto the floor at that innuendo. Clearly, pretending to be Riddle’s date—his real date—was a mistake. She quickly tried to recover. “I’m actually quite interested in the idea of Magical Law Enforcement,” she said as smoothly as she could. It was true in her old time, after all. “What with Grindelwald….”

The temperature of the entire room seemed to drop by several degrees. Pollux Black’s scowl deepened. “A disgrace to wizardkind,” he said in tones of real disgust.

Hermione was taken aback again. Weren’t the pureblood extremists on the same side as Grindelwald? She had always read that in her history books. Not, of course, that they could openly admit it, especially those who held prestigious Ministry positions… but Pollux Black had really been revolted at the mention of the man’s name. That was not faked. Hermione was too good now at recognizing deception to be fooled. Maybe there was something else behind it.

The discussion shifted to general abuse of Grindelwald and his movement in continental Europe. At one point, Avery—one of Riddle’s hangers-on—turned to Hermione with a shifty look.

“I’ve heard a rumor that Dumbledore knew Grindelwald when they were young. That they were even _friends._ Is it true?”

_Yes, it’s true._

But Hermione kept her composure as best she could. “I’m sure that Professor Dumbledore has no sympathies for Grindelwald. I’ve no idea who the professor’s friends were when he was younger, but it hardly seems relevant even if that is true. They certainly are not friends now.” She peered at Avery. “Where did you hear such a rumor, anyway?”

Avery shrugged. “Old stories get passed around in families.”

Hermione peered skeptically at him before wordlessly continuing with her wine, but not before she noticed that Pollux Black did not shift his gaze away from her after that.

* * *

When the meeting broke up, Hermione quietly asked Slughorn if she could stay after for a bit. She knew that Riddle was going to attack her in the halls as soon as they were alone, and she wanted to make him squirm a bit first. _Leverage,_ she thought. Leverage was important in Slytherin. It was a little unsettling to her how quickly she was grasping the principles of how to thrive in the viper pit, but then, she supposed she always grasped anything quickly.

Sure enough, Riddle hovered behind after the office was deserted of anyone but their teacher and the two of them, passing it off as chivalry. Slughorn was fooled. Hermione was not. She expected it, though, so she did not let it bother her.

“Professor,” she said hesitantly, “could I—ask you a question about something? Something I’ve… come across here?”

Riddle shifted. That was far too similar to the way he had begun a certain conversation a year ago with this teacher—and it was exactly what Hermione had intended. But she had other plans for the conversation.

“Certainly, Miss Green, by all means, ask away.”

 _Some things never change,_ she thought wryly. That was similar to how he had responded to Riddle.

“Well, I’ve… heard people talking about an incident that apparently occurred here. The Chamber of Secrets, they call it.”

Riddle started, then forced his features back the way they were.

Slughorn looked troubled. “That was bad business, Miss Green. Are you saying—you don’t—I mean, your _cousin hasn’t told you anything?”_

The words were too heavily emphasized. Hermione knew he was trying to speak in code, to ask her if she had heard of the Chamber of Secrets in her own time, but this was not good. He was tipsy. And Riddle was alert and observant.

“I have heard rumors,” she said firmly. Let him figure out what that meant. “I just—wondered if you could tell me anything about it. As a trustworthy source.”

He looked uncomfortable. “It was a year—no, a year and a half ago now. Late in the term. There were attacks. Petrification. And then a student was found dead in a girls’ bathroom.” He gazed at Hermione, trying to determine if she knew anything already. “They said it was an Acromantula….” He trailed off and then shifted his gaze to Riddle. A smile flooded his face. “You know what, Miss Green, you should ask your beau about it. He can tell you everything. He was the hero of the piece.”

Riddle smiled modestly. “I would be honored to do so, Professor. Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

Slughorn smiled and nodded jovially, heading back to his desk. “You’re welcome, Tom. Always happy to put these little gatherings together. Now off with the two of you!” He gave them one last tipsy wink.

Riddle turned to Hermione with fierce eyes. “I quite agree. Good night, Professor. _Come,_ Miss Green.” He extended his arm to her.

Hermione tried to suppress her shudders as she took it. All her attempts to hide her fear, to deny it, to bluff her way through it, were crashing down at her feet. Possibly it was the wine. But she had a really bad feeling that she had pushed him too far, and she was terrified of the look he was giving her.

She knew it was coming, so she was not surprised that as soon as they were out of Slughorn’s hearing, Riddle shoved her against the wall and took out his wand. His eyes were ferocious.

_“What are you doing, Green?”_

Hermione shoved him away and glared at him. “I’m not listening to this again, Riddle. Good night.”

He pointed his wand at her carotid artery. “Yes. You _are_ listening to it. And you’re going to answer me.”

“Then here is my answer. I am not _doing_ anything except attending classes for my seventh year of school.”

“Liar. What are you doing? Why are you _here,_ as a seventh year? And don’t give me that rot about a private tutor,” he sneered. “Why did you bring up the Chamber of Secrets for me to hear? Why does Slughorn keep making oblique, bizarrely inflected references to your relationship with Dumbledore? And”—he leaned in and hissed, “ _why do you have a Dark Arts book that is about nothing except possession, Inferi, and Horcruxes?”_

Hermione’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t really expected him to _say_ it.

“Don’t pretend you’ve never heard the word before,” he said contemptuously. “I want to know and I want to know _right now_ just what the hell you are up to.”

Hermione blinked, trying to still her rapid pulse and maintain a brave—no, _indifferent_ —face. Indifferent. Slytherin bravado was indifference. “Good night, Riddle. This conversation is over. My secrets are my own, and they will stay that way.” She turned away, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. It was surprisingly strong.

“You aren’t walking away. Answer me, or I will _take_ the answer from you.” He grabbed her chin and tilted her head so he would be able to meet her eyes with his own.

Her mind felt invaded for a brief moment, but she marshaled her Occlumency skills—they were much better than Harry’s complete incompetence, but were still only mediocre—and shoved his presence forcefully out. It was exhausting, and she was not sure if she could successfully do it again. She had to get to the common room and then her own dormitory.

Riddle seemed impressed that she could Occlumens at all, however, and he did not attempt Legilimency again. “Yet another surprise,” he remarked. “You really are remarkably intriguing, you know. Unfortunately for you, I insist upon solving puzzles.” He turned aside, robes swishing.

“Wait.”

She didn’t know why she said it, but this whole situation seemed far too much like a win for him instead of the standoff that it ostensibly was. She didn’t like that.

He turned and raised an eyebrow.

Hermione took a breath. “Why did Slughorn direct me to ask you about the Chamber of Secrets?”

He peered back coldly. “I’m not answering stupid questions, Green. Why don’t you ask whatever it is that you _really_ want to know?”

“But that _is_ what I want to know,” she said innocently.

He sucked in his breath. “That’s it. We’re done tonight. But don’t think I’m forgetting about you.” He strode to the Slytherin common room, spoke the password, and opened the door.

Hermione’s head buzzed, tired from wine and a long week—long _months,_ really—and intellectual exhaustion from playing Slytherin with the Slytherin himself. She was fed up with this. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said sarcastically as she entered the room after him.


	5. In Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is told from two different viewpoints, neither of which is Hermione's. We'll be back to her POV in chapter 6.
> 
> I don’t post “trigger warnings” for depictions of bigotry, but do keep in mind that just because a character says certain things does not mean that I, myself, hold such views.

_Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London._

Arcturus Black scowled imperiously at the house-elf Dusty. “Bring up a bottle of red wine from the cellar,” he commanded. “The 1895 vintage.”

“Yes, Master,” the elf squeaked. It Disapparated at once.

Arcturus turned to his guests, his trim, thin moustache curved faintly upward, in contrast with his mouth. “I deeply apologize,” he said in rumbling bass. “I did not anticipate your visit.”

The two guests leaned forward. “I am the one who should apologize, cousin,” said Pollux Black. “But I think that it is important that you and Abraxas know this.”

The third man, a blond wizard with his hair tied in a queue and wearing extremely expensive dark green robes, nodded.

Arcturus leaned back in his chair as the house-elf reappeared with the wine. “Master’s wine, just as Master asked for,” he reported.

“Good. Now find something to clean. Do not interrupt us,” Arcturus snapped. The elf vanished again.

The head of the Black family opened the bottle and poured the aged wine into fine crystal. “To purity of wizardkind,” he remarked, raising the wineglass in a toast.

“Purity,” Pollux and Abraxas murmured in unison.

They sipped the wine and set down their glasses as Pollux Black began to speak. “As you know, Arcturus, I was invited to Hogwarts by Slughorn.”

Arcturus lit a cigarette and nodded.

“It is the first time in three years that I have been there, of course,” he said. “And the first time since my… appointment.”

Arcturus managed a faint smile and fingered the Order of Merlin medallion that he wore, charmed to his tuxedo-style black robes, purchased from the Minister for Magic.

“Well, I’m afraid Sluggy may be slipping. At least, I hope that’s what it is.” Pollux frowned, his thin hair shifting on his head to expose untidy bald patches, in contrast with the stylishly balding and well-groomed Arcturus. “He was determinedly promoting the Head Boy, you know the one of unknown pedigree….”

Arcturus and Abraxas nodded. They had both heard of the young Slytherin prefect who came out of nowhere and apparently had managed to charm all the older pureblood boys of the House into following him. It was a disturbing situation, to be sure, and Arcturus had point-blank forbidden his son Orion, a fourth-year, to have anything to do with the young man. Abraxas did not have any children yet.

“That, I suppose, is not so surprising. I got a good look at him, and he was wearing a ring that Walburga tells me he claims came from his wizarding family. He must have some wizard ancestry, but his surname is unquestionably Muggle. However, what truly disturbs me is that Slughorn was also promoting a new girl who just came to Hogwarts now, for her seventh year. She is apparently involved with the Riddle brat and is Dumbledore’s cousin once removed.”

Arcturus and Abraxas looked up sharply. Pollux grinned, pleased to have the attention and respect.

“The thing is, Dumbledore _has_ no cousins—at least in his father’s family. His mother, however, was a Mudblood. And this girl is from _that_ side of the family.”

Arcturus looked disappointed. He puffed a breath of smoke and sipped his wine. “What is your point, Pollux? It’s unfortunate if Slughorn is promoting the spawn of Mudbloods, but what is that to us? I’ve always known the man was one academically impressive Mudblood student away from turning blood-traitor.”

Pollux leered. “At the dinner itself, Avery’s son spoke up to ask the girl something. He seemed to think that Dumbledore and Grindelwald had been friends as boys.”

That _did_ get Arcturus and Abraxas’s attention.

“She was flustered, and did her best to deflect, but it was highly suspicious to me, and I took the liberty of investigating. Muriel Prewett is the _most_ talkative witch you could imagine. You will have such a wealth of information at your disposal when your Lucretia marries Ignatius Prewett, cousin. And Bathilda Bagshot is even worse. Listened to her neighbors from the hedge, she did. The rumor is true, and it’s actually much more scandalous than that.” He leaned forward, grinning with a mouth full of yellowed teeth.

“Well?” Abraxas said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Apparently, the esteemed Deputy Headmaster and the Kraut blood-traitor are poofs. I would bet anything that they carried on a—what do the Muggles call it?—a homosexual affair. What an ugly word, that. Muggles,” he sneered.

Arcturus looked disgusted. “Pollux, this is infantile. I thought you had something important to say, and instead you are giving me salacious third year Hogwarts gossip. I could not care less if a wizard is a poof, or has affairs of any sort on the side, as long as he does his duty to wizardkind.”

“But that’s just it, they _haven’t._ Both childless bachelors, even now. And Dumbledore won’t duel the blood-traitor even with the entirety of the British wizarding world begging him to. Suspicious, isn’t it? And little Miss Green, the cousin, was quite obviously aware of that bit of sordid family history and did her best to hush it up.”

“What, exactly, are you trying to say?” Abraxas cut in. “That the girl is spying on the students of Slytherin House for Dumbledore?”

“No,” Pollux said. “For _Grindelwald.”_

There was a silence.

“Not, of course, that Dumbledore has any objection to it. If you want my opinion, they’ve joined forces behind the scenes.”

Arcturus fingered the rim of his wineglass, puffing on the cigarette until it was ash. Finally he spoke.

“That would be very detrimental to our cause if so. Dumbledore and his current protégé—”

“Septimus Weasley?” Abraxas Malfoy asked.

Both Black cousins scowled. “Yes,” Pollux said sourly. “Absolute disgrace that Cousin Cedrella married the filth.” He glared at the tapestry that adorned the parlor wall. A recent scorch mark marred the spot where their first cousin Cedrella Black’s name used to be. “He is a Muggle-loving idiot, making the proposal to conduct raids for Dark artifacts in wizarding families’ private homes. But as annoying as it is, it is to our advantage that the opposition consist of fools such as Weasley and Dumbledore, who propose policies so radical that they do not stand a prayer of passing muster. It makes us look good. Grindelwald, though….” He trailed off, not saying anything more.

The wizards finished their wine. “Lucretia is a prefect,” Arcturus finally said. “She shares a dormitory with Green, Dumbledore’s relative, but she has not given me to believe that she dislikes the girl—or wants to get involved at all, for that matter. I can’t say I object to that. Safer for her to stay out of politics.”

“My Walburga is also in the dormitory,” Pollux said, “and she does not like Green. Druella is there as well, and she profoundly dislikes the girl. I could… inform them?”

Arcturus nodded slowly. “It is not preferable to involve young pureblood witches, but if they do have an existing dislike of the girl, it would be foolish not to put it to use.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Tom Riddle was furious and frustrated.

He was so close to finding out what secrets Hermione Green was carrying. So close. He was actually inside her head for a brief moment—until she shoved his presence out with power that shocked him.

The details just did not fit coherently into a story that made sense. That she was spying on Slytherin—on the Knights—on _himself_ for Dumbledore was the most obvious explanation, but there was one piece that just did not fit that theory.

Tom had no doubt that Dumbledore suspected him in the Chamber of Secrets incident, and Green’s little innuendo to Slughorn about it could have been something that Dumbledore put her up to. Or, he had to admit, she might have figured that one out on her own. She was smart enough. But the one piece that did not work was the Dark Arts book. Dumbledore simply was not the sort of wizard to give any pawn of his full access to Dark information, especially not on a subject about which Slughorn himself had said the old coot was fierce. He would pick and choose what his tools knew, withholding information from them that he deemed too dangerous, not give them the bloody book about it to read for themselves and make up their own minds. Tom had been so shocked when Druella Rosier presented him with that list of books on Green’s desk—what a petty-minded little bitch she was, so very useful—that he had had to check the Room of Hidden Things to be sure that “his” copy was still where he’d found it a year and a half ago. And it was. Green had her own copy of that Darkest of texts, for some unfathomable reason.

Tom had then considered the possibility that Green was interested in the book for the same reason he had been and was planning very Dark magic right under the old codger’s nose—or had already done so. He had made inquiries of those catty harpies she roomed with, Druella and Walburga, being sure to Obliviate them afterward, about whether Green had any portable possessions to which she seemed particularly attached. The only such object either of them could answer for was the small beaded bag he had seen her carrying around. She had that thing with her during the Slug Club dinner, and he had taken the liberty of casting some invisible diagnostic charms on it when no one was looking. There was an extremely powerful Extension Charm and an anti-theft jinx, but nothing else. Of course, he could not answer for what she might keep inside the bag, but he really did not detect any Dark magic percolating out of it.

Tom hated to admit to being stumped, but he could not think of any reason why Green would be in possession of that particular book. But the fact that she was at all was ominous on a personal level, somehow. He wished, now, that he had not postponed creating his Horcruxes. The diary, of course, was not his fault. That was just too dangerous to attempt. He had had to shut up the Chamber of Secrets after the accident with that bumbling whiny second-year, and the book made it clear that accidental killings were very, very risky to attempt to use, as they did not always create the requisite damage. With an insufficient split, the curse could kill him instead of providing him security from death. The ring, at least, could have been turned into one, but he had not wanted to use the murder of that pathetic, degenerate Muggle to power his first anchor to immortality. His—ugh—father did not deserve that much honor. He had avoided taking the leap out of personal pride, and now he was wondering if he had made a mistake.

No, he was not comfortable at all with Green’s possession of the book, nor with much else about her. Something was up, something very important, and he had to get to the bottom of it. Where to start, though?

_Green says she’s related to Dumbledore’s family on his mother’s side. Who was the old coot’s mother? There’s a starting place._

Pleased at last to have an idea, Tom headed to the library to look at old newspapers and genealogical records.

* * *

Six hours after beginning his search, Tom was gripping the table in triumph and disbelief. He had already frightened off a pair of third years who tried to get too close to his domain, probably by accident, but it hardly mattered. What he was doing was more important than their insipid Charms homework, or whatever it was.

He glanced around the library to ensure that no one was watching. Sure that he was alone, he put a Preservation Charm on the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ dated August 1, 1910. Then he piled it on top of the papers already on the table. It was the fifth such paper he had lifted, but it was the most important.

 _“Geminio,”_ he muttered, pointing his wand at the papers before him. A copy of each edition formed on top. He levitated the copies to the bookshelves and put the originals into his satchel. Then he picked up his bag and left the library. He headed straight for the Slytherin common room. There was a bushy-haired liar he had to interrogate, and she was not going to get away this time.

She was keeping to herself in the common room, her nose buried in a book, naturally. It was not one of her Dark Arts tomes, he noted. Ignoring the admiring looks he garnered whenever he showed up, he crossed the common room and stood in front of Green.

She looked up from her book. “Yes?” she said curtly.

“Outside. Now.” His voice was soft and dangerous.

Hermione stared at him in evident fear. “What do you have to say that you cannot say here?”

He scoffed at this obvious attempt to avoid the inevitable. “This isn’t Gryffindor House, Green, where everything is everyone else’s business. Get up. I’m not going to hurt you, you silly thing. We just need to have a talk.”

She stared back challengingly and disbelievingly at him, but finally put the book into that bag of hers and drew her wand. “You’re damn right you won’t hurt me,” she murmured.

He raised an eyebrow and took her arm. Had to maintain the front that they were a couple, after all. Firmly he escorted her out of the common room, noting with satisfaction the absence of catcalls that would normally have been made if he had been anyone else.

Outside the common room, he pulled her into one of the abandoned classrooms and shut the door. She gripped her wand tightly, apparently expecting a fight. Tom raised his eyebrow again and instead withdrew the newspapers from his satchel. He spread them on the nearest desk.

“I’ve spent some time in the library,” he said conversationally. “It’s a fascinating place. You never know what you might find there.”

She eyed him warily. “Get to the point, Riddle.”

He continued airily. “These first four papers are quite interesting in their own right, of course. Such a delicious scandal, this ugly business with Dumbledore’s family. But of course, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Hermione saw no point in lying. “Of course I know about it. It had nothing to do with me, though.”

Tom smirked predatorily at her. “It most certainly doesn’t, Green. Because as interesting as these papers are, _this_ one is even more so.” He picked up the fifth newspaper. “August 1, 1910. A new Transfiguration professor is appointed at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore.” He smiled at Hermione. “Many accolades for the esteemed professor’s academic achievements, and then this bit about his _family.”_ Tom observed with pleasure how Hermione squirmed at that. “‘Dumbledore is the eldest child of the late Percival and Kendra Dumbledore,’” he read. “‘He also has a younger brother Aberforth, pubkeeper at the Hog’s Head Tavern in Hogsmeade, and a deceased younger sister, Ariana. Dumbledore’s father had no near kin, and his mother, a Muggle-born witch, had only a childless Muggle brother and Squib sister-in-law.’” He set down the paper and peered at Hermione. “Childless, it says.”

Hermione stood up and pointed her wand at him. Her hand was shaking.

“Don’t bother with that, Miss Green. I really have no intention of hurting you. I’m sure that Dumbledore did a good job of forging records, but of course, things always get overlooked.”

“You can’t believe everything you read in the papers,” she said in a jittery voice.

He ignored this, treating it with the contempt it deserved. “Now, here’s how it’s going to be, darling,” he said in a tone of false sweetness. “You can tell me the truth, and it’ll be our little secret—or I will prove to the whole school that you’re a liar, and that Dumbledore is in on it too. It’s your choice.”

There was nothing for it. He watched her try to gather her courage. It was—inspiring, in a way. “I’m not telling you anything,” she said.

“Very well, then.” He forced her toward the side of the classroom, against the wall, and grabbed her chin, turning her face to his and meeting her eyes.

There was that brief moment of mental invasion before Hermione gathered her magic and slammed him out. He scowled, but this time he did not back down. He had been expecting it after that other day. He moved his hands to either side of her face and met her eyes again. She tried to force his mental presence out once more, but it was weaker this time. She felt memories edging forward, almost as if summoned by his magic. Then the mind barrier was down.

Hermione whimpered as he plowed through the memories closest to the surface. There was that book again. A shrieking, black-haired witch that Tom did not recognize. A tiny hourglass filled with red sand. Then people talking to her.

_“Monday, September 4, 1944, Miss Green.”_

_“Are we correct to assume, then, that you have traveled back in time?”_

_“You must have a plausible cover story.”_

_“I believe it has to do with the creation of magical anchors in the new time.”_

_“Miss Green, we cannot send you back.”_

Tom suddenly jerked out of Hermione’s mind. He met her eyes, his own wide with shock. She backed away from him and pointed her wand at him again.

“I can cast an excellent Memory Charm,” she said shakily.

His eyes suddenly narrowed, and he pointed his wand back at her. “But you won’t, and if you try, I will block you, and then I will Disarm you. I think… we should collaborate. I think it would be very much in your best interest.”

“Why should I work with you on _anything?”_

He moved closer. “Because,” he said in a low hiss, “if you don’t, you will find that your little secret isn’t anymore. The Ministry might even take an interest in you and pull you right out of school, to be an experimental subject for them. They have _no idea_ how to send someone into the future without severe damage, Green. Not that it would stop them, of course. Do you really want them to try with you? That would be… unfortunate, wouldn’t it?” His mouth curled upward in a smirk.

She scowled at him and stepped forward. “Oh, so you’re going to threaten me? You don’t have nearly as much leverage over me as you think.” She met his eyes again, though her Occlumency shield was up. “You asked me a lot of questions after Slug Club. Do you really want the answers now? I can give them to you.”

He drew in his breath sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“The Chamber of Secrets was opened again in my time,” she said in a low voice. “And it was found out that you orchestrated the entire thing the first time and framed Hagrid.”

“I didn’t frame him for anything,” Tom said, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “He _was_ raising an Acromantula in the castle. That’s what I reported him for.”

“Everyone assumed that his monster was responsible for Myrtle’s death.”

Tom shrugged, unable to hide the smirk. “That’s too bad.”

Hermione scowled.

“Dumbledore took him under his wing,” Tom said dismissively. “Which would have happened anyway. I mean, who else would take on an academically incompetent half-giant?”

Hermione glared at him. “He is gamekeeper for decades, and then he becomes Care of Magical Creatures teacher in my third year.”

Tom looked respectively appalled, outraged, and nastily amused. “That hypocritical old man—I’m assuming he never earns an OWL in anything, and the old codger appoints him over _qualified_ candidates because he’s a protégé.”

“He was a pretty bad teacher,” Hermione had to admit. “It wasn’t one of Dumbledore’s better decisions.” She stared hard at Tom. “But that is beside the point. _Your_ misdeeds with the basilisk came out.”

Tom sneered at her. “How? I’m sure the great Gryffindor hypocrite _suspects_ me, but—”

“Your diary came to light.”

 _Oh, naturally,_ he thought. He stared at her flatly. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen now.”

Her eyes widened in surprise and concern, but she quickly recovered. “And there’s more, Riddle. I know you killed your father. Your _Muggle_ father,” she added spitefully. She glared at the big ring on his finger. “You framed your uncle for it and stole his ring.”

He was staring evenly at her, a calculating look on his face. “Doesn’t that frighten you, Green? Being alone in a room with a murderer?”

She hesitated.

“Did you get pulled into one of my memories and get frightened? Did you even know that it was just a memory?”

 _“What?”_ she whispered, almost to herself.

He was smirking. “Oh, for old times’ sake, darling. Here.” He reached into his satchel, shuffled around, and withdrew a leatherbound diary. He shoved it into her hands. “A piece of your past, is it? Maybe you should see if it still scares you.” He knew he was being reckless, but she obviously did know all about the Chamber of Secrets, so intimidation was the best option available. People did have visceral reactions to unpleasant memories, after all. It was the simplest sort of response to manipulate. Obliviating her could permanently damage her mind, and that was not desirable. Now that he knew her secret, he could think of so many uses for her knowledge.

Hermione gingerly opened the cover of the diary.

Pages filled with neat, elegant handwriting appeared before her. Most of them had moving images embedded in them, like wizarding photographs, but _deeper_ somehow. Hermione frowned.

Tom noticed that frown. A shadow of misgiving came over him. Maybe she _wasn’t_ frightened anymore. Or—maybe she had not come in contact with the diary at all, and it had been a friend instead who had done so.

“That’s odd… I thought….” Hermione trailed off.

“You thought what?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing,” she said at once. Seemingly more intrigued or confused by the diary than frightened of it, she reached into her beaded bag and withdrew a pre-inked quill. She turned to a random page and started to write in the diary.

_My name is Hermione—_

Tom yanked the book out of her hands furiously. “What are you _doing?”_ he exclaimed. The words continued to remain on the mostly full page, the ink drying by the second. He pulled his wand and cast a cleaning spell at the page. The words vanished. He glared at her. “Did no one ever teach you it wasn’t polite to vandalize other people’s property?” he taunted.

Hermione was staring back at him, something like relief etched across her face. “I’m sorry. It’s rather less intimidating than I remember.” Her voice was light.

Tom shoved the book back into his satchel. “Well, then, we’re back where we started. I know you’re a time-traveler, and you know things about me that you shouldn’t. Something has to be done about that.”

“Does it, now.”

“It does.” He regarded her appraisingly. “Slughorn thinks we’re an item. As base as that is, I think it’s still your best cover for the amount of time you’ll be spending with me.”

“I really don’t recall agreeing to spend any time with you.”

“You are laboring under the delusion that your agreement is necessary.” He gathered up the newspapers, put them into the satchel, and turned to her. “I still have many things to find out from you. All that takes… _time.”_ His mouth was set in a cold smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this story I am not following Rowling’s interview statement about who the Horcrux victims supposedly were. Several of them make very little sense in the context of established information and timing. For example, it is hard to believe that he located and dug up the Ravenclaw diadem in the single summer before starting work at B&B rather than the ten years after. But more relevant to this story are the claims that Myrtle and Riddle Sr. were victims for the diary and ring. I’m not sticking with either claim here. From the text, it’s not clear if Myrtle’s death was a deliberate murder, and diary Tom has memories from after her death (including knowledge of his parents). The timing of the Riddle murders also doesn’t work well for any of them to have been Horcrux victims. The infamous talk with Slughorn almost certainly occurred in Tom’s sixth year. Harry’s interpretation is that he already knew the procedure and just wanted to know what Slughorn thought might happen to a person with more than one Horcrux. Ergo, there is no reason for the talk to have occurred if he himself had made two already. Also, he was still wearing the ring during that talk. The only way this can work is if you assume that the spell can be performed on a split that already exists from a past murder, which maybe it can. But for plot reasons, I don’t want him to have any yet.
> 
> As far as the politics and Grindelwald connection are concerned, much will be made clear in a couple of chapters. I will say this much, though: I’m not following fanon on it.


	6. So It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the interest in this story!

_I won’t be able to survive here. This is the beginning of the end._

The thought pounded through Hermione’s brain repeatedly for the rest of the day. This was an unmitigated disaster, and she could see no way around that. Supposedly she was here on a mission of some sort, but the most logical sort of mission in this era had to have something to do with eliminating the threat of the Dark Lord before he could rise. Now, barely two weeks in, the fledgling Dark Lord himself knew her secret, and worse, he was using it to blackmail her into keeping his secrets. She had surprised him with the revelation that she knew about the Chamber, but after that he had recovered quickly. Indeed, he had willingly confessed to killing his father at once when she accused him of it. She thought she had manipulated him into keeping her secret private by mutually blackmailing him, but afterward, she realized that she was now an accessory after the fact to murder.

 _I suppose it isn’t the first time I’ve kept someone’s illegal secrets in order to get something out of them._ Still, she could not quite categorize her conduct to Rita Skeeter in the same box as this.

The only good thing about the entire conversation was that, as best as she could determine, Riddle had not created any Horcruxes. The ring was probably not one because he was still wearing it, and according to Harry, Dumbledore had theorized that he had stopped doing so after that point. And the diary—well, his attitude about that was not at all what she had expected, nor had the item itself looked the way she had expected. It had been a blank book, she had been told by both Ginny and Harry. It was pristine and appeared unused except for the name on the cover. And when one wrote in it, the ink was absorbed quickly. This diary appeared to be… just a diary. A wizarding diary, with memories actually embedded in the pages, but nothing more sinister than that. It was an unexpected boon.

The thought crossed her mind that, in theory, she might actually be able to wipe him out before he could do anything else, and there would be no complications. A simple Killing Curse and that would be that. No Voldemort.

There were just two problems with that idea.

Hermione had not forgot about the disastrous DADA duel. He had finished her with three spells. He had deflected her own feeble attempt with laughable ease. That was a problem. It seemed incredibly unlikely that she could ever get him into a situation where his guard might be let down enough for her to use the unblockable curse.

And that was the other problem. She had cast it in the Battle of Hogwarts, but that was a kill-or-be-killed situation, and she had just watched several of her friends die at the hands of people who had no moral compunctions about using it on anyone. Hermione was ashamed enough of using it even in that situation. She was reasonably certain that it was… damaging… even in that context, based on how it made her feel afterward. There was a certain hollowness and vague feeling of disconnection, almost as if the memories of doing it belonged to someone else. She really did not think she would be capable of casting it cold-bloodedly against an unsuspecting person who, loath as she was to admit it, was not threatening her life and had not actually done anything to her that was deserving of death.

It was so tough to admit, but it was true. Her memories were a paradox now. They represented events that had taken place, but in a different world. Ironically, these events represented her past, and it was a past that was not reality for anyone else here. Tom Riddle of 1944, however sinister and intimidating he could be, was not the deathly white, noseless, red-eyed monster of her memories. He had not done the things that she remembered. It was wrong to kill him for things he only might do.

Hermione finally decided, the following day, that the best thing to do was to talk to Albus Dumbledore. She had been postponing it ever since she was Sorted into Slytherin, feeling vaguely embarrassed, even traitorous in a way to her old House. His House. But it needed to be done.

* * *

“Lemon drop, Miss Green?” Dumbledore asked kindly.

Hermione almost burst into tears as she took the candy. Dumbledore looked at her oddly, but he did not ask for clarification. Hermione was grateful for that. She was determined not to tell anyone anything about how far she had traveled into the past or what events had triggered her sudden trip.

“How are you settling into Hogwarts?” he asked.

Hermione did not require explanation of the subtext. “It’s… odd, Professor,” she admitted. She hesitated, before finally concluding that this was not important information about the future. “In my original time, I was in Gryffindor. I did not expect to be Sorted anywhere else.”

The professor nodded. “I suspected that your original House had not been Slytherin, from the face you made when I lifted the hat. You are coping well enough, I hope?”

She nodded. “It has been a bit of a shock to me that I can adapt to it, but… yes. And I knew Professor Slughorn as well from my own time.”

“We all have qualities of every House in us,” Dumbledore remarked. “There are several reasons that the hat might place you in a different house at different ages. It could be that the hat is making a judgment about what you need to cultivate at a given point, rather than what you want, or what your most dominant personality traits are.” He looked sideways at her, as if trying to obtain information without making it obvious. “Professor Slughorn has told me that you have attracted the interest of the Head Boy, Mr. Riddle.”

“That’s exactly what I came to talk to you about,” she confessed.

“Oh?” There was concern in the professor’s voice.

“Yes,” she said. “In my time, he is… someone I know. Not personally, but….” She hesitated.

“But you don’t particularly like him,” Dumbledore guessed.

Hermione laughed at that understatement. “No. But I was thinking about what you said when I first met with you here, about how you think there is a reason I’m here. It has occurred to me that the reason probably relates to him. He… I hesitate to tell you too much, Professor, because you have to understand, this he has not done anything that—his older, other version—did in my time to make me dislike him. I don’t want to prejudice you against him for things he has not done here. But at the same time, I don’t know what type of path I ought to take to address the issue, if my guess about why I am here is correct.” She paused again. “His ‘interest’ in me is not altogether with my consent. It’s been rather unwelcome, in fact.”

Dumbledore looked sharply at her. “Miss Green, are you implying that he has been forcing—”

“Oh, no,” she assured him at once. Best not to mention that cheek kiss in the hallway, especially since she still was not able to file it away as a wholly unpleasant memory. _And I don’t want to get him in trouble for—_

Hermione ended that thought at once. “No, nothing like that,” she continued. “I do mean ‘interest’ in the literal sense. He has been intrigued by my presence here.”

“I see. Yes, that would make sense. Mr. Riddle always has been determined to understand everything going on around him. More than understand, in fact.”

“Control,” Hermione murmured. “Yes. So—as Professor Slughorn mentioned, he is now staying near me because of this interest he has.”

“And his proximity is undesirable to you.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I almost feel that I should allow it, because of my guess about why I am here. And I have to admit, I have been ostracized by my roommates. It’s understandable; they have been through six years of school and grew up together, and they don’t know me. But that doesn’t make it easy. And also, we don’t have a lot in common. Riddle is at least someone I can talk to about things such as advanced magic.” _Wait, where did that come from?_ she thought in panic. That thought had not crossed her mind before, at least not at the conscious level, but it still tumbled from her lips before Albus Dumbledore.

He considered. “I think you are correct,” he finally said. “I have had… concerns about Mr. Riddle for years. If he is interested in you and it feels benign—or relatively benign—then it is probably best that you encourage it. But if you ever do feel threatened or otherwise in danger from associating with him, please come to me, Miss Green. I know that Professor Slughorn is your Head of House, but when it comes to the subject of Mr. Riddle, he is….” Dumbledore trailed off. “He is very fond of Mr. Riddle,” he finally said diplomatically.

 _You have no idea,_ Hermione thought. “I understand, and I will be sure to do that.”

* * *

If he had actually been Hermione’s real boyfriend, Riddle would have been outwardly the perfect one. He walked her to and from every class, opened doors, sat with her at meals, attended Slug Club dinners with her, and held hands or linked arms whenever they were in a public place. That was almost the entire extent of his public displays of feigned affection. He never forced a kiss on her again and only occasionally put an arm around her. It was very, very proper.

Hermione had to wonder why he didn’t try to force her into anything. Did he have a moral objection to sexual assault, despite having no problem whatever with murder and torture? She supposed that it was possible. It was known to happen among Muggle criminals, definitely. And she realized that in all her reading in the 1990s about Voldemort, not once had she come across a reference to him, himself, using sexual violence as a tool of power. Certain of his followers did, but not him. _And his mother raped his father,_ she thought uncomfortably. If he knew that by now—she was unsure what the Muggle Riddles and Morfin Gaunt would have told him, or if he would believe anything they said—then that could be a compounding factor.

His demeanor during classes was entirely different from the hostility that had been in place for the first two weeks. In pair projects and class practicals, he was helpful and friendly. Disturbingly, she found that her blurted statement to Dumbledore was becoming prophetic: In DADA, she was actually learning more from him during their practicals than from Professor Merrythought. _More than I even learned from Harry in the DA,_ she thought unhappily. She sometimes lost herself in their in-class conversations about complicated magic.

However, Hermione had a bad feeling that she was now seeing the same “charming gentleman” front that he had put on for everyone for the past six years. She knew that underneath it, their “relationship” was based on mutual blackmail and threats. She knew that she was consorting with the same person who opened the Chamber of Secrets, unleashed a monster in the school, and killed his Muggle relatives. She knew that, even if he had not made any Horcruxes, he unquestionably knew how to and was interested in the idea. She knew that he was the leader of a pack of snobbish, entitled pureblood boys and that he hated people like her.

It was easy to forget all of these things when he was being so polite and considerate, though. She was relieved that he was not forcing himself on her physically, because that would have made it repulsive, but at the same time, there was only so long she could spend time with an outwardly perfect gentleman who was also an intelligent conversationalist—and handsome to boot—without having the thought cross her mind that perhaps if he drifted his arm just a bit lower down her back….

It was troublesome and embarrassing, but this was the exact sort of thing that could not be fixed with magic, so she tried not to think about it too hard most of the time.

* * *

Hogsmeade weekends began, and for the first one—in the first week of October—Hermione had expected to go with him to pretend to be a couple. But when it came time for the students to be allowed to go to the village, he had come up to her scowling furiously.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“That miserable old codger pretending to be your cousin—”

 _“Hush!”_ she hissed, looking around to be sure that no one had heard.

He glared. “Dumbledore wants me to do hall duty. As a prefect.”

Hermione frowned. “I didn’t think Dumbledore even liked you.”

“He probably doesn’t like that we’re….” Riddle trailed off, apparently unsure what word would be most appropriate to use.

Hermione thought about it. “He hasn’t said anything to me to that effect.”

“You told him about—this?”

“Obviously Dumbledore knows all about ‘this,’” Hermione retorted, evading the question. “He is observant enough. Half the school gossips about it: the _dashing_ Head Boy and the _fascinating_ new girl who is related to the Deputy Headmaster,” she said scathingly.

“I don’t want you to go to Hogsmeade,” Riddle said abruptly.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re a _couple,”_ he hissed, “and that means you’re supposed to be so devoted to me that you’ll stay in the castle where I am instead of having a fun visit without me.”

Hermione regarded him frostily. “No, you just want to control me.”

He smirked. “It’s nothing personal. I want to control everyone.”

“I’m well aware. That doesn’t mean you’ll do it. The last time I was in Hogsmeade—” She broke off as memories of the invasion just before the Battle of Hogwarts filled her mind. “I want to go,” she said at once. “And _you_ won’t keep me from it.”

He glared again. “Then look properly sad that I’m not by your side, and for Merlin’s sake stay away from any other boys.” He smirked. “And if you wanted to buy me a gift, it wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Right,” she said disdainfully.

He sniffed. “In a couple of hours, then.” He turned and stalked off.

Hermione was actually very relieved to have something to do that did not include Riddle trailing after her like her keeper. When he stormed away to terrorize first and second years in the halls, she practically danced out the gates as she headed to the village with the rest of the students.

The shops and pubs were too similar to those in her own time—at least, before the Death Eaters invaded everything. Hermione felt Harry and Ron’s presence in every corner. As she stepped up to the bar of the Three Broomsticks, she felt a pang.

 _They’re not dead,_ she told herself. _They haven’t been born. And I’m going to save them, somehow._

The proprietor of the Three Broomsticks in this day, a plump matronly witch, peered at Hermione. “What’ll it be?”

She could not bring herself to order butterbeer. It was just too much. Too many memories. “A shot of Ogden’s,” she said firmly.

The witch raised her eyebrows but did not argue as she poured the firewhisky into a rocks glass. Apparently it was perfectly obvious to her that Hermione was of legal wizarding age. _I do look much older than eighteen,_ she thought sadly. As she received her drink, she sipped it and had the thought that even her birthday had arguably changed. She had not traveled back to May 2, 1944, but to September 3. She had not lived a full year since her last birthday. She would have to figure out what her “new” birthday was when she was back in the castle.

Hermione finished the firewhisky and pushed the glass forward on the bar. Her head felt a little dizzy. Riddle was not going to be happy to see her tipsy, she thought idly, and then wondered why she cared.

She stepped out of the bar and ambled up an alley, heading vaguely in the direction of the Shrieking Shack—until she remembered that it had not been built in this time. She looked around; no one was nearby. Just some trees.

Hermione’s head was spinning from the firewhisky and the chill and the sense of overall wrongness about all of this, _her_ Hogsmeade but yet not. She did not see the figure ripple into visibility, his Disillusionment Charm fading. She did feel it when he grabbed her and Disapparated. Then there was a curse, a flash of intense pain, and she perceived nothing.

* * *

“Ah, you are awake,” a cultivated European voice said. “I’m glad. I have thoroughly punished that fool, Miss—Green, is it not?”

Hermione blinked. She was in a draped bed in a room that appeared to belong in a medieval castle. A fire crackled in a large hearth, and assorted banners and tapestries adorned the tall stone walls. Was this somewhere in Hogwarts?

Then her eye caught a banner she recognized. It was in the middle, clearly the centerpiece of the collection. Dark grey, almost black, with a very familiar gold symbol in the middle: a triangle with a circle inside and a vertical line ascending to the peak of the triangle.

_Oh, no._

Hermione turned her eyes to the wizard before her. He had faintly greying blond hair and his face might one time have been merry, but at the moment his features seemed melded into a permanent smirk that vaguely reminded her of Riddle.

“Grindelwald?” she whispered.

“I see I require no introduction,” the wizard said, beaming. “Indeed, Miss Green.”

“Why am I here?” she asked bluntly. “What do you want with me?”

Grindelwald’s eyes twinkled _so_ reminiscently of Dumbledore’s, it made her stomach turn. “There is no need to worry. I have no intention of harming you, and I have taken care of that idiot who cast such a curse to knock you out. Wholly unnecessary. There was no other harm done, Miss Green.” Grindelwald looked pleased with himself, even expecting thanks.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Hermione snapped.

Grindelwald frowned. “Why do you _think_ you are here? You’re a clever witch, I hear. What is your guess?”

She glared back at him. “Dumbledore, I expect. You want me as a hostage to draw him into a fight, because I’m… his cousin, and his student.”

Grindelwald smiled grimly. “Miss Green, you are not Albus Dumbledore’s cousin. I knew Albus’s family. Now, I cannot deny that he did a remarkable job of modifying documents, but he could not modify the memories of everyone who knew him well. Fortunately for him—and for you—there weren’t very many such people, and even fewer who still live, but you are nonetheless in the presence of one of them.”

Hermione stared. Did Grindelwald know she was a time-traveler too? First Voldemort, and now Grindelwald? That was just perfect.

Her thought-question was answered at once. “What I want to know, Miss Green, is who you _are,_ and why Albus Dumbledore took the trouble to create a cover story for you at all. It is… rather uncharacteristic of him.”

Hermione leapt to his defense instinctively. “Professor Dumbledore is a caring man who protects his students.”

Grindelwald laughed. “Oh, you cannot actually believe that. No, I can hear it in your voice. You know things about him.” He peered at her interestedly. “You _know_ the sordid history, do you not? You do. I don’t know how you do, but you do. Fascinating. So you know exactly what he is, and these statements you make do not convince me any more than they convince yourself.”

“What do you _want?”_ Hermione asked again. “Just get to the point.”

Grindelwald gave her a calculating look. “Impatient, aren’t you? Very well. What I want is information.”

“You want a spy,” Hermione guessed. “A spy right under Dumbledore’s nose.”

“Correct,” Grindelwald confirmed. “And I want it to be you because, believe it or not, I have your best interests in mind.”

Hermione scoffed. “You don’t even know me.”

“No, but I recognize value when I see it, unlike that old fool, who thinks it is a mark of virtue to turn aside anything special or valuable. You have a secret that Albus Dumbledore is willing to lie to protect. Now, I am hardly claiming that lying is an unusual activity for him, but a lie of this magnitude… well. The last time I saw it, he was hiding his sister in the basement.”

Hermione leapt up, enraged. Grindelwald flicked his wand— _the Elder Wand,_ she thought—and pinned her to the bed again.

“I have your best interests in mind,” Grindelwald repeated. “I bring Miss Dumbledore up for a reason. How well did Albus’s lies turn out for _her?”_

“Ariana Dumbledore died because of you!” Hermione exclaimed. “You dueled them, and you probably killed her—”

“No, I did not,” Grindelwald said, and for once, there was a note of sadness in his voice. “It was not my curse. I know that for a fact, because unlike Albus, I had the courage to cast Prior Incantato on my wand to find out. My previous wand,” he said with a grin. “And do you really imagine that that barkeeper brother of his was capable of powering a deadly curse after his fourth year of Hogwarts? No, Miss Green.”

Hermione closed her eyes. Somehow, she had known it all along in her heart, but it hurt nonetheless to have the dark suspicion confirmed.

“There is something you need to understand,” Grindelwald said. “Albus Dumbledore is not your friend. He does not know what friendship is. He champions love, but he knows nothing of it. His greatest regret is—what? That his sister died? Why was she even _there,_ Miss Green? Why was she not in St. Mungo’s, or some other magical hospital, in the care of Healers, who might have been able to help her?”

Hermione opened her eyes and gazed helplessly at Grindelwald. She had often wondered that very thing herself.

“He was prepared to give up his ambitions, his great plans, to make a martyr out of himself, in order to stay at home and ‘care’ for her—which meant keeping her shut up without proper expert care for the rest of her life, had she lived. And he regarded that as the ‘right thing to do’ and a manifestation of familial love. Miss Green, Albus Dumbledore is a liar and a hypocrite. He uses people for his own ends and then denies having any such ends in mind. Spins stories to himself about how wrong it is to have plans and ambitions, and tells people that he is using them as pawns because he ‘cares’ about them. And the worst thing is, I think he believes his own words. My point, Miss Green, is that Albus Dumbledore is not to be trusted. You have trusted him so far with your own story, and, well….” Grindelwald trailed off, opening his arms wide to indicate the room that Hermione was currently in.

Hermione was at a loss for words. She really could not argue against anything that Grindelwald was saying. Was this not exactly how he had treated Harry in her own time, giving him pieces of information—what he, Dumbledore, thought Harry should know, rather than the whole story—and then throwing him to the wolves? All the while blathering on about how much Harry meant to him?

 _“I don’t know who he loved, but it wasn’t me,”_ Harry had said. Hermione had not wanted to agree with him at the time, but….

 _“My brother wanted a lot of things,”_ Aberforth Dumbledore had said.

And he had treated Snape the same way, she remembered.

_“You have used me.”_

Hermione closed her eyes. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. This was _Grindelwald,_ forerunner of Voldemort, and currently the leader of the blood-purity movement.

“I still can’t be your spy,” she said, opening her eyes. “I am against your agenda. No, your agenda is against _me._ I can’t work for you.”

“Tell me, Miss Green, what exactly do you think my agenda is?”

“Blood purity, of course,” Hermione spat. “The purebloods are the natural rulers of all mankind, Muggle-borns aren’t real wizards, Muggles should be oppressed, and—”

Grindelwald laughed. “Is that what they say in Britain? Does that come from that appalling newspaper you have, the _Daily Prophet_?” He chuckled. “No, my dear, you should never believe a word that that rag says. I do not deny that my agenda includes ruling over Muggles, but… well, you cannot argue that the Continental Muggles have made quite a hash of their affairs, have they not? Muggles are incredibly destructive, and this is _our_ world too that they are destroying. But as for the rest of your assumptions, you should read more, Miss Green. I will say no more than that. Read more, and then we may talk again.”

* * *

Hermione appeared on the outskirts of Hogsmeade next to the forest. The sky was dark. Her stomach felt unsettled and twisted. The henchman that Grindelwald had ordered to Disapparate with her did not perform curses on her, but the whole incident had upset her.

She realized that, all the past month, she had been regarding Dumbledore as the person she had known who died in 1997. The wizard who had known her for six years. The wizard who had the outcome of a war invested in her best friend, and who was relying on her intelligence to help guide that friend.

Albus Dumbledore of 1944 was none of those things. Why _should_ Dumbledore care anything about her? From his perspective, she turned up in the castle as a time-traveler a month ago. He knew nothing else about her. His biggest problem at the moment was Gellert Grindelwald. His second-biggest problem, he probably considered to be Tom Riddle.

Hermione shivered and huddled closer. Something else had just occurred to her. Why had Dumbledore separated Riddle from her for this Hogsmeade visit? It was Dumbledore who had ordered him to do hall duty at this specific time.

 _No,_ she thought, willing herself not to entertain the idea that was crawling at the edge of her subconscious. _No. I won’t think it. If he had a purpose in mind, it was to give me some time away from Tom so that he doesn’t hover near me all my waking hours._

She stumbled away from the trees into the road and made her way toward the village as best she could. Shouts arose as she approached Hogsmeade.

“There she is!” a loud male voice carried over the din. Hermione recognized it.

Riddle was furious, holding his wand aloft with its tip lit. He extinguished it and grabbed her as she approached. “What happened to you?” he shouted. “People have been looking for you for hours when you didn’t come back with the others!” Hermione could not help but note, with some surprise, that he seemed genuinely angry and concerned.

“I think I was cursed,” she said lamely, for the benefit of the crowd standing around her. She noticed that it included Slughorn and Dumbledore himself. “I was exploring the outskirts of the village, and I felt something hit me. Probably a prank. That’s all I remember.” She glanced at Riddle, willing him to Legilimens her, to understand her message: _I’ll tell you the truth later._

He seemed to. “Well, at least you’re here now,” he said. “All right, everyone, back to the castle.” He kept his arm possessively around her waist.

She realized quickly that she was glad of the feeling.

As she walked back to Hogwarts, she also realized that she had just lied to Dumbledore and promised to confide the truth to Riddle.


	7. Revisionist History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interpretation of Dumbledore’s behavior in the beginning of this chapter is not canon, and you may not agree with it, but I think it’s a valid possibility. I’m not a supporter of evil!Dumbledore, but… I would still point out that his passivity in Goblet of Fire—given the fact that he appeared to have worked out a great deal of the situation before the end of the tournament—is indicative of its being deliberate. Maybe Voldemort couldn’t be vanquished, even if all the Horcruxes were gone, unless he had a physical body. Maybe Dumbledore anticipated the blood bond and decided to let it happen to give Harry a chance to survive. I honestly would not put either past him.

“Grindelwald,” Tom muttered.

They were in the Room of Requirement, which currently took the form of a richly decorated alcove with cozy chairs, a small hearth, and a dark ambience ( _“We need a place to talk privately”_ ), and Hermione was explaining to him what had actually happened after she went to Hogsmeade.

“Yes, Grindelwald,” she replied. This was the second time he had said the name. He was obviously puzzling something out but was not sharing it with her. That annoyed her. It was her experience, and she had the right to know what he thought it was about, since she had chosen to confide in him. “What are you thinking, Tom?”

He raised an eyebrow at that. Until this point, she had only called him by his given name when they were pretending to be a couple for other people.

“Basically, Hermione, it doesn’t make sense that Grindelwald would have even known about you, except from one source.”

Hermione sighed, vaguely disappointed that this was where his thoughts had converged. “I know you dislike Dumbledore, but this is a school. There could be leaks from anywhere.”

“No, Hermione, it could only be information planted on purpose by him. Suppose the alternative. Suppose that a student wrote home about you, and the parents had contacts with Grindelwald’s operation. Do you really think the parents would pass on Hogwarts gossip from their child to Grindelwald? And if they knew that information with a connection to Dumbledore was of interest to him, then answer me this, Hermione: _Why_ would Grindelwald then ask _you_ to spy? He would already have a reliable source of information in Hogwarts.”

Hermione closed her eyes. It could not be so. Dumbledore did not do things like this with his students.

_He let Harry compete in the Triwizard Tournament on his own when he knew full well that Voldemort had interfered with the Goblet in order to get at him._

That Voldemort—of sorts—was now right before her eyes, and she was confiding in him, occurred to her briefly, but she pushed it out of her head. Tom was just a person. The monster hadn’t happened in this universe.

_He knew that “Moody” was Barty Crouch well before the maze. He had the memory of Crouch’s trial in his Pensieve. Crouch was assumed to be dead, so that memory should have been just—history. Nothing relevant to the present. But he knew. He also knew that someone had stolen Polyjuice ingredients from Snape’s office. He knew. And he allowed it to happen. He used Harry as bait to get his enemy to make a move._

Her heart was thudding and her breaths were coming heavily. She wouldn’t think it. She would not.

“From what you tell me, Grindelwald was not interested in hurting you,” Tom remarked. “Did it seem genuine?”

Hermione considered. “I… actually think it did,” she replied. “He just spoke—made a speech, more like—about how untrustworthy he thought Dumbledore was, and how I shouldn’t put my faith in him—”

“Can’t argue with that,” Tom muttered with a grin. “But if Dumbledore knew Grindelwald and knew there would not be a great risk to you, then, well….” He trailed off pointedly.

“Grindelwald seemed concerned that by aligning with Dumbledore, I would meet the same fate as—” Hermione broke off. Then she remembered that Tom already knew about the Dumbledore family scandal, having read about it in the old newspapers when he investigated her cover story. “As his sister,” she finished quietly. “He had actual regret in his voice when he spoke of her death. And he told me to read more about his movement.”

Tom considered. “Then maybe you should do that.”

“I had every intention of it,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “If there’s even a possibility that what I know is wrong, then of course I want to find that out. And I can always make up my own mind about things with enough information.”

Tom smirked. “Is that why you have that Dark Arts book?”

_Oh, we’re back to that. You never give up, do you?_

Hermione gave him a measured look. “Someday, Tom, I may tell you exactly why I have that Dark Arts book.”

“Of course you will,” he said confidently.

* * *

The following day, Hermione got up early with the intent of going to the library and settling in for a day of reading. Ignoring her dozing roommates, she got dressed and went to the Slytherin common room to look for Tom.

Several of his clique of boys were sprawled on the cushions lazily, doing nothing in particular, just looking superior—or believing that they did. Hermione just saw a group of seventeen-year-old boys.

“Riddle’s not here,” one of them spoke up.

Hermione searched her brains for the name. Lestrange. Roland Lestrange. A shudder passed over her body, followed by a wave of revulsion. This was probably the father of the Lestrange brothers, who took part in the torture of the Longbottoms.

 _Hasn’t happened,_ she reminded herself, trying not to curse him where he sat.

“Where is he, then?” she asked.

The boy next to Lestrange shrugged. Hermione knew that this was Druella’s twin brother, Vincent Rosier. “No idea. He said he had something to take care of.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Lonely already, Green?”

Hermione sniffed in contempt. Definitely just a group of seventeen-year-old boys. “Not lonely enough to seek out your company, Rosier. I’m sure there is a valid reason why Tom is the leader of your pack.” At that, she stalked out of the common room and headed directly to the library.

Once inside, she staked out the table where Tom usually sat and piled up every book and magazine about recent history that she could find. She did not recognize most of the titles from her own time, which struck her as odd. What had happened to these books by the 90s? Unlike Muggle libraries, there was no need for the Hogwarts library—or any wizarding library—to remove books for space considerations.

She opened the first of the titles, turned to the table of contents, and began to read.

Four hours later, she had a horrible suspicion that she knew why none of these books were still around in her time.

 

_The political conflict of Pureblood Isolationist against Muggle-sympathetic Reformist has been raging since the adoption of the International Statute of Secrecy. These traditional factions obviously disagree on many points, such as the legality of Wizard-Muggle relationships and the introduction of Muggle-born wizards into the magical world. However, their points of disagreement all relate to the degree of contact that the wizarding world should have with the Muggle world. They do not disagree about the rightness of Wizarding Seclusion, but rather, about how extreme that Seclusion should be._

_In the 1920s, however, a new movement arose in Europe under the auspices of Gellert Grindelwald, a movement which bridged gaps between the Reformists and the Isolationists, but is wholly radical in its goal: the repeal of the Statute of Secrecy. It is easy to see the popular appeal of Grindelwald’s message in Continental Europe. No distinctions are made between Pureblood, Half-blood, and Muggle-born; the mere existence of magic is all that is important. Family and personal connections of a wizard matter not because in Grindelwald’s vision, wizards no longer need hide from Muggles._

—“The Rise of Wizarding Supremacism in Europe,” a scholarly magazine article

 

_Two destructive Muggle wars and a devastating Muggle economic downturn have touched our world. The lie we have been fed by our Ministries is now irrevocably exposed as a lie: the Muggles can indeed harm us. They are not benign and childlike, as the Reformists would say. They are not filthy, primitive, and stupid, as the Isolationists say. The agents of our Leader Grindelwald, highly placed in the Muggle governments to keep watch on Wizarding interests, confirm what we fear: Even now Muggle governments are engaging in research programmes to develop catastrophic weaponry on a scale the world has never before seen…._

_Our Leader is rational and understands that the immediate exposure of Magic to the Muggles would be dangerous. Therefore he advocates the gentle use of our most potent weapons upon troublesome Muggles. No Muggle-born would need to be excluded from their rightful membership in the Wizarding world because of ignorant, Magic-hostile family members. We have Memory Charms and the Imperius Curse for such cases, and it is right to use them gently for the sake of a Wizarding child, or even for the sake of the Muggles themselves in certain circumstances. Or consider a world in which the Muggle Adolf Hitler had been controlled by the Imperius Curse—or in which the German Muggle Archduke, in 1914, had been shielded by Magical means from the assassin’s weapon. Our world would not be in tatters, in danger of total destruction by Muggles who are manifestly unable to rule themselves…._

—“The Vision of Our Leader Grindelwald,” a propaganda pamphlet reprinted in the _Quibbler_ for stirring up local patriotic outrage

 

_The consummate blood-traitor Grindelwald and his army would destroy all that we have worked to build since 1689. He insults wizarding pride by claiming that Muggles could destroy us, when we all know that no actual Witches were burned, but merely stupid Muggles killing other stupid Muggles. He uses Muggle wars—more killing of Muggles by other Muggles, nothing that concerns us—to incite fear among Wizards. He offends the purity of our ancient magical lineages by advocating to bring in Mudbloods wherever they are found and grant them—and their Muggle families, which he insists are actually Squibs—full status in our world, even admission to our noble school Durmstrang. He would expose us to the Muggles, creating the very danger he insists is already present._

_For decades we, the Continental Pureblood Movement, have fought in the halls of political power against the Mudblood sympathizers. However, the threat of Grindelwald is such that we must, for the time being, join forces with our political opponents and unite over our common cause of Wizarding Secrecy…._

—“In Support of Articles of Alliance,” a political party publication from Austria

 

_It is with Grindelwald that we will truly come into that which is our own. The Reformists have championed us while patronizing and restricting our families. They have sought to bring us into the wizarding world, the world to which we are born by virtue of our magic, but we can bring little of our own. We are removed from our families, from our shared human culture, from the great scholarly and innovative advances that our Muggle neighbours make. We are then forced into a closed society that is a century or more behind the Muggles in advancement, and we are never truly a part of the wizarding world. Mocked and derided, our non-magical advances legislated out of existence in the name of either “protecting Muggles” or “preserving wizarding culture,” we are stifled, and with us, the wizarding world is held back from the true potential that it could achieve. Grindelwald shall grant us our full, true birthright as Wizards and as human beings. We declare our support._

—“Manifesto of the Association of German Muggle-born Wizards”

 

Hermione was overwhelmed.

Why had she not _known_ this? How, after fifty years, had history been rewritten so thoroughly?

Everything she had ever read about Grindelwald in the 1990s indicated that he was merely another blood purity supporter, albeit a highly intelligent and charismatic one. That when he was defeated by Dumbledore, the movement merely migrated to Britain and Voldemort took it over a decade later. That was clearly not the case at all. She had had _no_ idea that German Muggle-borns had declared support for him. Grindelwald’s movement had been something very different from blood purity, since the blood purity supporters were openly opposed to him. The abusive references to Grindelwald in the first Slug Club meeting now made perfect sense to her, since the Austrian Pureblood document had even called him a blood-traitor.

Hermione recognized many of the publications for what they were—political propaganda—but they were nonetheless far more revealing of Grindelwald’s real agenda than the deliberate lies that revisionist future historians had written after his defeat. The political documents were clearly written in the soaring, rabble-rousing style particular to that sort of publication. But underneath the rhetoric, she realized that this part of wizarding history had been very, very different from what she had always read. There was a reason why the Muggle-borns had thrown their support to Grindelwald. There was a reason why the European Purebloods opposed him, especially if their opposition went so far that they would make common cause with their longtime political adversaries over it. There was a reason why he could muster such broad, crossover support even with those two factions’ leadership against him. And there was even a reason why Grindelwald as a young man could have made friends with a half-blood wizard who had a Muggle-born mother.

 _That could partly explain why, even in 1994, they weren’t allowed in Durmstrang!_ Hermione knew all too well that the winners of a war often punished the losers for years, even decades. This had definitely happened in postwar histories, at least those that were printed in Britain.

_Lies. Utter lies._

Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald in her timeline. If nothing changed, it would happen in this timeline next year. After that, his political compatriots—“Reformists,” as the pamphlets called them—had been ascendant in wizarding Britain until about 1994, when Lucius Malfoy had such influence on Minister Fudge. As much as it hurt to admit it, _they_ had undoubtedly pressured historians to write the revisionist history that she had learned, falsely linking Grindelwald to their current political opponents. It was despicable, but she supposed it didn’t overly surprise her now that she knew it. Things like that were simply _done_ in politics.

Hermione no longer knew what to think. The German Muggle-borns had a legitimate point, and a point that had troubled her for ages as a Muggle-born herself. She _had_ been ripped from Muggle society and forced into a culture that did not fully accept her. The wizarding world _was_ decades behind the Muggle one in technological and scientific advancement, and there was no movement to change that. Indeed, both factions _were_ against it, the blood-purity fanatics on the basis that Muggle culture contaminated wizarding culture, and the others on the basis that Muggles would be bullied and tormented by wizards if wizards got hold of too many Muggle objects and enhanced them.

And there was something else, something in the pamphlet printed by Grindelwald’s organization. Memory Charms.

 _I ruled my Muggle parents for their own good,_ she thought painfully. _I did it without asking them, without a by-your-leave, without anything. I just did it because I could and I thought it was best for them. To protect them. I did exactly what Grindelwald’s movement advocates doing to Muggle-born wizards’ parents when “necessary.”_

Still, Grindelwald—Hermione could not bring herself to support him as he was. She remembered some things Viktor had told her during her fourth year. Grindelwald had killed his grandfather, and he was even now engaged in mass killing and incarceration of his political opponents in Nurmengard Prison. And Hermione was not sure she could support overturning the Statute of Secrecy, as he apparently wanted to do.

 _This is beyond me,_ she thought, putting the books and magazines back in their proper places. It would not do for anyone to see what she had been reading. _I can’t get involved in the politics of 1944, especially if it means I might end up on the losing side. I’m meant to change something, apparently, but this cannot be it. This is too big for me._

* * *

That afternoon, Hermione went back to the Slytherin common room feeling dejected and overcome. She really did not want to deal with Slytherins at the moment, but whenever Tom turned up again, he would come looking for her, and she did not want to incite his displeasure or worry this soon after the—incident.

Roland Lestrange looked at her with a raised eyebrow and a profoundly disapproving look.

 _That’s new,_ she thought. She glared at him. “Problem, Lestrange?”

“No,” he sniffed. “Not my problem, at least. Maybe yours. Riddle told us to tell you, when you came back, to go to the seventh floor corridor. He said you’d know what that meant.” He grinned nastily.

“I don’t envy you, Green,” Vincent Rosier said in an undertone. “Riddle doesn’t react kindly when he’s angry with someone.”

 _Why would Tom be angry with me?_ Hermione wondered. She decided not to think about it. These boys were probably just trying to scare her. Without another word—but a deeply scathing look—she turned on her heels and left the common room.

Tom was waiting in the Room of Requirement, which took the same form as it had the previous day. He did not look angry at all, confirming Hermione’s guess about the stupid boys in the common room. Pathetic, seventeen-year-old teenagers.

“Have a seat,” he said quietly. His face wore a very odd expression—thoughtful and eager at the same time.

“What have you been up to all day?” she asked.

He glanced at her. “I’ve been investigating something. Something that occurred to me after what happened to you yesterday.”

“Did you find anything useful out?”

“Maybe.” He closed up. “I heard you were in the library.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “I did read about Grindelwald.”

He met her eyes with his own. They were interested. “And?” he prompted.

“Much of what I thought I knew—no, all of it—was wrong,” she admitted. “Evidently, in my time, the history of Grindelwald had been completely rewritten. It was rather horrifying, to tell you the truth. I was _lied_ to.”

Tom’s mouth curled upward in a faint smirk. “You weren’t a Slytherin the first time you came to school, were you?”

_“What?”_

“You weren’t. Obviously. But still, does it really surprise you that people will lie about politics?”

“I…” Hermione trailed off. She had known from fourth year that official sources would lie for an agenda. She herself had been a victim of a reporter’s poisoned quill. “I don’t suppose, but it still makes me angry.”

He nodded. “That’s why it’s imperative to be the one in power, telling the lies.”

Hermione stared at him. “I—wow. _That_ is what you conclude?” She got up. “Good evening, Tom. I thought you had something to tell me—”

“Sit down, Green.”

His tone was sharp, and she had not heard him speak like that—or use her assumed surname—in weeks. It caught her attention, and she stopped in her tracks.

“I said sit down. I do have something important to tell you.”

Hermione went back to the chair and sat down, looking at him with raised eyebrow.

He looked down at his lap for a moment, as if he were trying to decide something. Finally he looked up. “Stay away from the Knights unless I am with you,” he finally said.

A sudden, inexplicable chill shot down her back. She had just been in the common room with some of them. She had also been there this morning, and both times they had been somewhat sinister. She had had to convince herself that they were mere boys, after all….

“I noticed that Lestrange and Rosier, at least, appear to have some sort of problem with me,” she said haltingly.

“Stay the bloody hell away from them,” he said in emphatic tones. “And Avery too. They think you’re working for Dumbledore and Grindelwald.”

“And you don’t?” she scoffed.

His eyes gleamed. “I used to entertain the idea, but no, now that I know why you are _really_ here, much that puzzled me makes sense.” He sighed, thinking something over again. “There’s something else. I’m no longer sure that Grindelwald doesn’t have a spy in Hogwarts,” he said. “I may have been—mistaken.”

Despite the gravity of his words, Hermione could not help but laugh. “The great Tom Riddle, mistaken about something?”

“It’s not funny.”

“And you think this spy is one of them? That makes no sense, based on what I just read about him.”

“I don’t—no, I don’t think it’s one of them.”

“Then what—”

“Look, Hermione,” he hissed, “just stay the fuck away from them unless you are with me, and don’t be alone with anyone else. You won’t be hurt if I’m there.”

Hermione’s eyes widened at his language. He was really serious about this, and it was baffling to her that he even cared. Baffling… and thrilling, in a certain way. But she knew better than to inquire further on _that_ subject with him. “If they think that I’m working for Grindelwald, why would they care if you were there? Wouldn’t they want to protect you from me?” she asked.

“Hermione, my—relationship—with them is… well, unique. They understand that it is not their part to try to ‘protect’ me from anything. They know I can take care of myself. They realize it is an insult to me, to my magic, to try to ‘protect’ me. If I associate with you, they will think I am trying to get information from you, or deal with you myself.”

Hermione shook her head in amazement. “This is really strange to me, Tom.”

He smirked. “Gryffindor, wasn’t it?”

Hermione scowled.

He continued, her face confirming it to him. “I am not sure yet what the connection is, but it hardly matters. If they think you’re working for Grindelwald, they will be doing the bidding of their fathers. And I won’t have you harmed. You’re too valuable to me. How often does someone from the future show up?”

 _Oh, so that’s it._ Stung, Hermione looked back at him. “I assure you,” she said icily, “that I have _no_ desire to be around your ‘Knights’ by myself.” She stood up. “They are repulsive to me. So if that’s all, then we’re done.”

He peered back at her. “Why are you so offended all of a sudden?”

 _If you really don’t know, I won’t give you the satisfaction._ “I’m not. Or… all right, I just can’t believe you would think I would _want_ anything to do with those boys,” she lied.

“You were a Gryffindor,” he replied. “Courage, bravado, trying to prove a point.”

She glared. “Prove a point… such as opening the Chamber of Secrets.”

“A point which I was never able to publicly prove,” he said silkily, “because my personal liberty and ambitions were more important than ‘proving the point’ in the end. Shall we, now?” He extended his arm to her.

She took it, and they exited the Room of Requirement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s fanon that Grindelwald’s agenda was standard pureblood supremacy, but I’m not convinced that it was. There’s nothing in the books to indicate that Grindelwald was anti-Muggle-born. His best friend was a half-blood with a Muggle-born mother, and everything in Albus’s letter to him indicates that they were in agreement about wizarding supremacy, no matter where a wizard or witch’s magic came from. They wanted to overturn the Statute of Secrecy and rule Muggles openly, whereas the blood-purity hardliners wanted nothing whatever to do with Muggle society. The issue is somewhat clouded by the fact that the Death Eaters routinely and flagrantly violate the Statute of Secrecy, but they are more of a terrorist group than a serious political faction.
> 
> Hermione was much more eager than Harry to overlook Dumbledore’s involvement with Grindelwald’s politics. She also, as noted in the chapter, used her magic on her parents’ memories, “ruling” a pair of Muggles “for their own good” when they very likely would have preferred to experience grief if she had died.


	8. The Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to get this out so soon, but the writing kept coming, so I have a nice long chapter for everyone. It is told mostly from Riddle’s POV. If there is any doubt, this chapter should make it clear that I'm not writing nice!heroic!Tom in this story.
> 
> Warning for torture and violence. In that vein, you may have started to wonder why this story has an archive warning. It’ll become apparent over the next several chapters.

_November 1944._

Over the past month, Tom Riddle had experienced something new.

 _It’s just a variation of what I already know,_ he reassured himself. _I’m very protective of my possessions. But I’ve never been possessive of another person. As a rule, I have regarded people with contempt. They are unworthy to be mine. But Hermione’s different._

She was different. She was special, as he was. As he had rightly pointed out to her the month before, how often did a time-traveler appear? And she was not just any fool who happened to get a Time-Turner in her hands. No, she was like him, that rarity who actually deserved the special circumstances that had been bestowed upon her. She was highly intelligent, the first person at Hogwarts in his entire school career with whom he could truly talk. She was fierce. And… she was somehow dark.

Yes, she was dark. She owned that collection of Dark Magic books, for one—a fact for which he was still determined to figure out the reason, though it was no longer at the top of his priority list—but her darkness went deeper than that. The future she had come from had not been kind to her. She seemed older than everyone else, for one, as if she had seen and _done_ things that no one else in Slytherin House—no one else in the school—could viscerally understand.

He could understand. It was hard to define, but there was a certain magical mark, or aura, about someone who had cast an Unforgivable Curse, and Hermione Green had it. He, having done so himself, could recognize it in her. It… attracted him, in a way. She probably had not wanted to, but had done so as a necessity (and _why_ it had been a necessity was one thing Tom was determined to find out). Well, sometimes it was necessary—for self-defense, for defense of one’s possessions (inanimate and otherwise), to pre-emptively remove a threat, as vengeance… or as a required means to an end.

He wondered who she was— _really_ was. Of course she was not related to Albus Dumbledore, but he wondered who her real family was. He wondered how far from the future she had traveled. He wondered how she had known him—or known of him—in the future.

It was time to get some real answers out of her. He had stopped trying to bully and force the truth out of her some time ago. Initially it was because he could tell that she had the strength to block it, but now that he considered her special and his… well, he did not want to ruin that. He didn’t want to harm her or lose her. People were different from objects. She had free will to turn away from him if he offended her too much, and while he certainly _could_ take that free will away, it would be magically difficult, and it would also destroy what made her special to him. There was nothing special about an Imperiused puppet. He valued her because of what made her a person, so he would not take that away even if he were capable of it.

And possibly, though it was a bit difficult for him to openly think the word, possibly he respected her too much to do that to her.

* * *

Hermione seemed inclined to do as he asked and avoid the Knights. It was gratifying that she was not so much of a Gryffindor that she thought she could take them all on at once by herself. One or two, probably, but it was best not to let her get the idea that he was all right with her putting herself unnecessarily at risk at all. He had them firmly under his thumb, and it was safest and most sensible for her to just take advantage of that.

Still, as much as he preferred to have what belonged to him nearby all the time, it was not possible. Not even with objects, and certainly not with a person. It was not possible even when he shared all his classes with her. Sometimes she had the inclination to go to the library for private reading. Tom did not want to tell her she wasn’t supposed to go there without him; it was obvious that books were extremely important to her, and she would take it personally if he tried to restrict her favorite hobby. And, after all, she _wasn’t_ seeking out the Knights, but simply going to the library.

 _It’s not exactly a place where they are likely to be, anyway,_ he thought with disdain one evening in November when she was there.

However, she had been in there for quite a while, and dinner was about to be served. He should escort her to the table. He got up from his desk, put his books away, and headed down through the common room.

His Knights acknowledged him with the usual deferential grunts and mutters. Did they ever do _anything_ but play cards in front of the fire when he wasn’t directing them? Probably not. Utterly pathetic, the lot of them. He glanced briefly at them, doing a quick head count. Yes, there they all were—no wait, where was Lestrange? If he was stalking Hermione, he would be taught a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget. That disobedient bastard. Of course he would be the problematic one.

Tom hurried out of the common room, reaching for his wand.

His fears were not wrong. As he approached the library, he heard magical explosions, muttered curses, insults, and the occasional slap of flesh on stone. He quickened his pace and moved into a deserted corridor near the library.

Hermione and Lestrange were dueling ferociously. She had a bruise on her arm, and her hair was wild, but otherwise she was unharmed. Lestrange bared a feral, ugly grin at her as he sent spells back at her. Tom remained in the shadows. She was actually performing quite well, much better than he would have guessed after their very first DADA class. It was probably his tutelage that could be credited for this….

 _“Crucio!”_ Lestrange suddenly hissed.

The Unforgivable caught Hermione. Her eyes popped and she crumpled to the floor, wincing, her muscles twitching. It must not have been cast very well, because she was still able to lift her wand and point it at Lestrange, but this had gone on too long. _It was too long after the first spell the bastard cast,_ Tom thought.

He stepped out and waved his wand at Lestrange, casting a Dark curse silently. The other boy screamed as his eardrums shattered. Blood poured from his ears, and he clapsed his hands to them futilely. Tom then summoned and caught Lestrange’s wand. He gazed down at the bleeding boy with disdain.

“I told you not to interfere,” he said in cold tones, pointing his own wand at him.

Hermione heaved a breath and stood back up. “Tom,” she said.

He gazed at her. “He came here to harass you, and he had you in the throes of an Unforgivable Curse. This is the least of what he deserves.” He turned again to Lestrange. “I could have you expelled and thrown in Azkaban for that, you know. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t do it.”

Lestrange was weeping in pain from his damaged ears. He couldn’t speak; the pain of any sound was too intense.

Tom sighed and cast a healing spell. “You can clean up your own blood,” he sneered. “Now answer me. Why shouldn’t I report you to Dippet and see you into Azkaban?”

Lestrange looked up weakly. “I… don’t know. It won’t happen again.”

“My business is my own, is it not, Lestrange?”

“Yes, of course. I apologize.”

“See that it doesn’t happen again,” Tom said coolly. He turned to Hermione. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. Her eyes were still wide, either from the Cruciatus aftermath or the Dark magic that Tom had just performed on a classmate.

“It’s dinnertime. Food will be good for you.” He offered her his arm.

She stared at him in astonishment. “Tom, how can you just—”

“Just what?”

“Just _watch_ that, and use a spell like that, and then act as if it had no effect on you?”

They began to walk out of the hallway. “It obviously did have an effect on me,” he growled. “I was not going to let him do that to you. I asked you to avoid them, and you have done so, but it seems that I did not make my message to _them_ clear enough that they are also to stay away from you.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” she mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. “I see. We’ll talk later.”

* * *

“Hermione, sometimes it’s necessary to use damaging spells to get a person to stop. I don’t think that the Jelly-Legs Jinx was really an option.”

They were sitting in the Room of Requirement in its small alcove iteration, discussing the incident with Lestrange. Hermione wrung her hands. “I know, but… Tom, I can’t explain why things like that bother me without telling you—”

He came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Telling me what, Hermione? Something about the future?”

She looked away.

“Actually, I think it’s time you _did_ tell me more. All I know is that you came from the future and that you somehow know of a couple of things that I did. I have no idea how far you came from or how you know of me or… why you had to use Unforgivable Curses. And you did. It’s written on you.”

She grimaced. “Yes. I’ve had to kill in battle. That was the only one of the Unforgivables I’ve used… though my best friend used the others….”

“In _battle?_ Why were you fighting?”

“Tom, this is not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

She would not meet his eyes. “You would never think the same way of me again.”

He chuckled darkly. “Hermione, do you really think I would judge you for using the Killing Curse in battle? I’m not Dumbledore.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“Then explain. I want to know.”

Hermione sighed. She paused, going silent for a minute. Tom was extremely impatient, but he had a feeling that if he waited, she would open up.

“Tom, I need to know something first. When you opened the Chamber of Secrets….”

“Yes?”

She took a deep breath. “What do you think about blood purity? I mean, _really_ think?”

He sat down on the nearest chair. That was one question he had not been anticipating, and it seemed apropos of nothing to him. But apparently it was important to her, so he was willing to tell the truth if he could get the information out of her that he wanted.

“There’s something you need to understand, Hermione. When I learned that I was a wizard, it was the most important day of my life. I had known all along that I was different and special, but to find out that there was a whole world for people like me, in which I could thrive—well, it was amazing. And then I was Sorted into Slytherin,” he said with a dark chuckle. “In a house where family is everything, I had none that I knew of. I had a _Muggle_ surname. For that first year, it was the same bloody thing that I had known all my life: I was an outsider and I had to gain respect through fear. And now the people I had to intimidate could fight back with magic.” He tilted his head proudly. “Fortunately, my magic was always more powerful.”

Hermione felt ill. That was so familiar, so very familiar.

“Then I began to research my family, and I learned that I was descended from Salazar Slytherin himself. I can’t even describe what it meant to me to discover that I was _right,_ I belonged just as much as any of them did— _more,_ in fact. It was _my_ House. That was fifth year. At that time… I subscribed to blood purity. I had been swept up in the discovery of my ancestry and what it meant. It was part of finally discovering I did truly belong in Slytherin. I tried to be the best Slytherin I could be, and that was the only way I knew how. And I’ve always despised Muggles,” he added in a dark tone.

Hermione looked down unhappily. “I suppose knowing that your father abandoned you—”

“Don’t bring him up,” Tom said sharply. “I don’t care about him anymore.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow for a second, but quickly snapped her features back into place. “And now?” she asked quietly.

Tom hesitated. “Well… it went wrong. The Chamber. And after that, I myself…. People grow up, you know. The mania passed. I realized it wasn’t viable. After that, it was a means to an end. I’m a half-blood, Hermione. I hate it, and I hate that my mother was an ignorant inbred rapist and my father was a Muggle who didn’t want his own _son_ if his son was a wizard… but it’s a fact. I’m also not stupid. It would be _stupid_ to actually hold views against my own self-interest. But in terms of making a bid for power, it was either throw my lot in with Dumbledore and his band, or try for the support of the Pureblood Isolationists. I would cast them off as soon as I no longer needed them… and that may be sooner than I hoped,” he added in an undertone. He glanced up at her. “Why is this important?”

Hermione took a deep breath, mustering her courage. “It’s important because I am actually a Muggle-born, and in the future I came from, you… well, you don’t discard your allies. You adopt their views completely.”

His mouth opened in astonishment. “What? I—revert back to what I was at fifteen? I advocate, _really_ advocate, for that, despite—” He broke off. “Will I be Minister for Magic? I probably had to say it in order to keep my supporters with me. How far in the future did you come from?” He looked eager. “Slughorn thinks I’ll be Minister in ten years. That’s quite young, so I would need alliances. Was I—”

“No, Tom, you weren’t Minister.”

“Then what—”

Hermione put up a hand. “I can’t tell you about it. I just can’t. But I will show you some of my memories if you promise me something.”

Next to her, a Pensieve appeared by the Room’s magic, along with ten small flasks.

“Promise what?”

She looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Promise me you won’t hurt me over anything that you see in them,” she said quietly.

“Hermione, what the hell am I in your future that you would need to ask that?”

She smiled a faint, dark smile. “Would you like to find out?”

* * *

Two hours later, Tom sat slumped in the chair. The ten flasks, smoky with memories, glittered next to the Pensieve. A bespectacled boy talking about a diary and a basilisk, a tournament and a dead body, a battle in a hall filled with globes, the same boy telling about meetings with Dumbledore, altering her parents’ memories and going on the run, an aged house-elf and a raid on the Ministry, a snake attack in a creepy house, a raid on Gringotts, torture at Malfoy Manor, and finally, the Battle of Hogwarts.

“How could that have happened to me?” he muttered.

Hermione did not respond. He did not seem to be actually expecting an answer.

“How could I have been so bloody _stupid?”_ he mumbled again. He looked at her. “God, Hermione, it didn’t even _look_ like me! What _happened_ to me? It was the seven Horcruxes, wasn’t it,” he answered at once. “I went too far, and it affected my mind. I thought seven was a powerfully magical number, but clearly it wasn’t in that context, since it didn’t work out for me. I guess”—his mouth twisted in a rictus of disappointment—“I guess the book was right that you should stop with one Horcrux.”

Hermione grimaced. “Tom, please.”

“That’s why you have the book, isn’t it,” he said dully. “Because you needed to learn about them. To destroy me. The version of me in your old timeline.”

Hermione could not answer. She did not have to.

“I had no ambition anymore,” he continued muttering. “No viable goals. Just a desire to destroy. Because it was _fun_. Reverting to the mindset of being fifteen? I reverted to being _two._ And I surrounded myself with those fools for too damn long.”

Hermione still could not reply.

“Those boys who were in your memories so often,” he said abruptly.

“They died in the battle. They were my best friends,” she said quietly.

“Not your boyfriends?” It was almost a sneer.

Hermione felt a pang for both of them, for what, on occasion— _the Yule Ball, the Slug Club party, the long nights in the tent with Harry—_ she had hoped might happen with each. “No. They weren’t.”

He had a very sour look on his face. “I suppose I—other I— _Voldemort_ made your world such a war-torn hellhole that you never had the opportunity.”

She shook her head. “Actually, when I was in fourth year… sort of. The closest I had to one, anyway.” She felt weary, emotionally overwhelmed, and could not put together why Tom was asking her this. “Is this relevant to anything?”

“No,” he said sharply. She glanced up, but he had already changed the subject. “Hermione, that woman who cut your arm—”

Hermione involuntarily clutched her arm. “I’d really rather not discuss that.”

He leaned over. “Bellatrix Lestrange was her name? Is she Roland Lestrange’s daughter?” His eyes gleamed. “I could fix that for you this very evening—”

Hermione leapt up. “Tom, I did not show you those memories so you could go on a killing spree against everyone—no, the _parents_ of everyone—no, in her case, she wasn’t even a Lestrange. She was married to one.”

“Oh, right, she was the cousin of that one man—she was a Black. Orion’s daughter?” he asked shrewdly. Orion Black was a fourth year who was not part of Tom’s clique.

Hermione shook her head.

“Cygnus’s,” he said.

Hermione shook her head again, but Tom could still read the truth.

“Cygnus and Druella’s. I see. That makes sense. Druella’s a shrew too.”

Hermione sighed. She put her hand into her robes and withdrew something from her pocket. “This was her wand, Tom. It’s mine now. My best friend took it right after that happened. We escaped. We _won,_ as you saw. And if you really don’t want that timeline to happen, then look in a mirror before you start casting Killing Curses at everyone.”

He drew back, stung. “I told you, it’s idiotic, it’s disgraceful, it’s unworthy of me, it’s a bloody embarrassment—”

“How about ‘it’s wrong’?” Hermione snapped.

“Fine! It’s _wrong!_ Those views are _stupid!_ They could not sustain wizarding society, and I don’t support them anymore! Everyone goes through a ridiculous political phase as a kid. Look at you, Hermione. I saw your crusade about freeing house-elves—”

“Watch it,” she warned.

“The point is, now that I know how things could go wrong for me, I’ll know what not to do,” Tom continued. “I’ve already got an alternate plan, in fact.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I don’t need to be beholden to these parasites to obtain power, especially not if it means I turn into one of them—into _that_. There are other ways.”

“Are you going to explain—”

“Not at the moment,” he said with a smirk. “All in good time. But it’ll work, and it will leave me able to set my _own_ agenda.”

“My parents are _Muggles,”_ Hermione said icily. “Will be, I should say. Somehow that isn’t particularly comforting to me, since you admitted that you hate Muggles.”

“I do hate most Muggles. I don’t particularly like most _people,_ in case you haven’t noticed,” he drawled. “But your parents are Muggles who accepted magic and kept their damn mouths shut. They’re not the problem.”

“What exactly do you propose doing to Muggles who are ‘the problem,’ then?”

“Depends on the situation,” he said. “Perhaps in some circumstances, the answer would be a well-placed Memory Charm, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hermione blinked. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Anger was flooding her body—and betrayal. Weeks of being treated to gentlemanly behavior, then this? A wave of hot rage filled her.

Tom merely stood by, grinning smugly. It was the spark to the fuel.

“That’s it,” she announced. “I’m not going to listen to any more of this. I just trusted you with invaluable information, paying you an enormous compliment that you do _not_ deserve, but clearly, now that you’ve learned ‘what not to do,’ you see no reason to show any respect to me anymore. I show you my memories, and your only reaction is bemoaning how stupid you would be to do those things—and how you could kill the parents of people who don’t even exist yet, to prove _what,_ I don’t know. It won’t change my memories. And then you mock me! Over something I did because of _your_ future self! So the past weeks have all been a sham that you don’t need to maintain now. Fine. But I warn you, Tom, since you _know_ that I am proficient with Memory Charms—”

“Hermione—”

“Don’t bother. You told me that other time, didn’t you, that I was valuable to you because I was from the future. I understand, and you got what you wanted. Good night.”

Without another word, she stalked out of the Room of Requirement. He gaped at her for a moment before hurrying after her. They walked all the way to the Slytherin dormitories, but she still would not say another word.

Walburga Black and Druella Rosier were lurking in the common room, huddled in a corner, when she came in with Riddle. Druella looked up, and a flash of hatred passed over her face.

“Where have you been, Green?” she asked.

Hermione did not deign to respond. She was not in the mood for this. She never was, but especially not now. She had just emptied herself. Over the past couple of days, she had been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse—a weak one, yes, but still the curse—and then watched Tom torture a classmate with Dark magic. Now she had to listen to cattiness from this horrible girl who reminded her far too much of Pansy Parkinson?

“Have you been alone with him? You know what I think?”

“I’m frankly surprised that you think anything at all,” snapped Hermione.

“I think that since you’re just a poor relation of Dumbledore, you have no other options than to use your body to try to get a wizard for yourself,” Druella said, smirking.

Anger flared inside Hermione, but she was too tired to engage in this—and, if she were honest with herself, too far above it now. She had just relived the worst times of her life. Schoolroom stupidity was beneath her now.

However, Tom noticed. “Five points from Slytherin,” he said, giving Druella a ferocious glare.

She shrank back. “Riddle, from your own House?”

“Yes, for telling malicious, juvenile lies about a fellow Slytherin because you’re jealous of her,” he said harshly.

“Sorry,” she said, flushing. The apology was not directed at Hermione.

Hermione stood up and glared contemptuously at her, continuing to the girls’ dormitories in a swish of robes.

Once in the room, she collapsed on her bed and heaved a sigh. This was completely out of control now. What had she _done_ to the future? Perhaps Tom would not be quite so evil, but his objections to what he had seen were based more on how irrational and—what was the word?—disgraceful it had seemed to him. And his first reaction, after the narcissistic angst, had been to want to take it out on everyone who was closely related to someone who had hurt her—except, of course, himself. It was hard to see that as much of an improvement.

She did not want to eat dinner. Afterward, a house-elf appeared in the dorm room bearing a plate of leftovers and a glass of juice.

“Master Tom, the handsome Head Boy, told Lucky to give Miss her dinner,” the elf said.

Hermione managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Lucky.”

She eventually ate some of the food.

* * *

The next morning, the Slytherin common room was abuzz with disturbing news. Druella Rosier had been taken ill late the night before. Hermione had not known about it because she had stayed in her room the whole time and was asleep by the time it happened.

She looked around the common room. Tom was not around. The Knights were clustered together near the hearth, except—wait, two people were missing. Vincent Rosier wasn’t there, she noticed. All right, that made sense; he was presumably visiting his sister in the infirmary. Roland Lestrange was also not around. That… did not make as much sense.

“Where’s Lestrange?” she asked.

Avery glared. “What’s it to you, Green? Tired of Riddle already?”

“Did he have something to do with the incident?” she asked, ignoring the second comment.

Lucretia Black walked up. “Let’s talk about this in the corner.” She took Hermione’s arm and pulled her away from the group of boys.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Lucretia.

“It was a Dark Arts curse,” Lucretia said in quiet tones. _“Osteo Debilita.”_

Hermione gasped. “That’s awful! But there’s no permanent damage, I hope?”

She knew that curse. It was a nasty, insidious one, weakening the bones throughout the body and making them ache and hurt from the strain. They often would break, and the usual bone-repair potions and spells would not work, because the curse would still be active. Even the Muggle way of mending fractures would fail. The curse could be fatal if left indefinitely, but its main purpose was to make its victim suffer.

“Healer Smythe was able to break it and has given her the necessary potions. She’ll probably have to rest for several days, though. It’s hard on the body.” Lucretia winced.

“And _Lestrange_ did it to her?” Hermione’s voice was very low. That was odd. Her first thought—fear—was that it had been Tom, in retaliation. If Lestrange had done it, something else was apparently up.

Lucretia lowered her voice as well. “Lestrange was acting very funny. The professors think he was under the Imperius Curse.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “I assume, then, that he—”

“Oh, he confessed, but he wasn’t himself. He also acted Confunded. Someone mucked up his head very well. He has no memory of who cursed him… though it can be done without one’s knowledge anyway, of course.” Lucretia peered at Hermione and lowered her voice to a whisper. “The rumor is that Grindelwald’s agents were involved.”

Hermione nodded slowly. A creeping feeling was seeping down her gut. This did not make sense. Didn’t Tom have quite a history of framing other people for his own actions? This, she had to admit, was a bit more subtle—if Tom had done this, then rather than framing Lestrange himself as the perpetrator, he had made it look as if others were involved. And he had taken points from Druella the night before, in full view of most of the seventh years, so it would appear that he had already punished her.

Tom soon emerged from the boys’ dormitory. When he saw Hermione, he got up and walked over to her.

“We’ll have this talk elsewhere,” he said with a false smile. He took her arm and led her out of the common room, into the dungeon hall, and through the door of one of the unused classrooms.

 _“Muffliato,”_ Hermione cast at once.

Tom raised his eyebrows. “That’s useful,” he said, impressed.

“Rosier and Lestrange. What do you know?”

“More specific, Hermione.”

She took out her wand and fingered it threateningly. “Lucretia Black told me that Lestrange confessed to cursing Druella and appeared to be Confunded and Imperiused. True or false?”

“Definitely true.” His eyes were not lying.

“The rumor is that it had to do with Grindelwald’s agents. The spy at Hogwarts—”

“Possible spy,” Tom said silkily.

She gave him a sideways look. “All right, the _possible_ spy Imperiused Lestrange in order to—I guess send a message to Rosier Senior. Or more likely Pollux Black, DMLE Head, who will be Druella’s father-in-law. But it doesn’t make sense to me.”

Tom chuckled. “You’re right. It doesn’t. Grindelwald has better things to do than plot the cursing of some insipid, catty bitch at Hogwarts. But these fools all think they’re incredibly important, so….” He smiled.

Hermione glared at him. “You. _You_ did it. I knew it. You Imperiused Lestrange—it was payback at him for attacking me, and at her for that _stupid_ comment she made about me—” She rubbed her eyes.

Tom was smirking. “Whyever do you say that, Hermione?”

She pointed her wand at him. “Don’t even pretend. It was you.”

The smirk vanished from his face. “Don’t point your wand at me. I didn’t have Lestrange use a lethal curse on the twat. Not a quickly lethal one, at least. I could have, you know. I considered it. That way her foul offspring would never even be born.”

Hermione gasped. “This is because of—her? Of the memories?”

“That and Druella’s pathetic, jealous comments, yes.”

“You would curse her with something like that because she insulted me?”

Tom shrugged. “You know that those idiots, Lestrange and Vincent Rosier, think you are spying for Grindelwald. I can’t let them continue to spread that rumor when I know otherwise. I can punish them when I hear them doing it, but I also have to try to stop the rumor. Everyone knows you haven’t been alone with Lestrange, because you’ve been with me or in your room all night. If ‘Grindelwald’s spy’ did it, that means the spy can’t be you.”

Hermione shook her head. “But cursing her with a spell like that, really Tom? You could have permanently injured her—or worse.”

“But I didn’t. I’ve only killed one person by accident, Hermione. Never again. What happens is what I _want_ to happen. The future Mrs. Cygnus Black will recover nicely. Though why would it bother you if I had? She’s a vile person, a waste of magic… and from what your memories indicate, she produces offspring even more degenerate.”

“Not all of her children turn out evil,” Hermione said quietly. “Her second daughter is a fine person. Will be.”

“Then it sounds as if you should be grateful that I didn’t kill her,” he said arrogantly.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “I don’t see that it was necessary to curse her at all!”

“I never said it was _necessary,_ Hermione. Surely you of all people understand wanting to do more than is _necessary.”_

Hermione threw up her hands. “Tom, I understand—I think—what you are trying to convey. You want to defend me, to show me that you are not that person in my memories, and won’t be this time. I understand. But… this is not how it’s done.”

He glared. “It is how _I_ do it,” he said in a snarl. “These feeble, pathetic ‘defenses’ that most people make don’t deter the behavior in the future at all. However, I assure you that she won’t say such things about you again.”

“Did you _tell_ her that you did it?” she gasped.

Tom smirked. “I didn’t have to be so blunt as that. There are ways of making sure one person knows without being able to prove a damn thing. And she won’t talk, because the rest of the House thinks it is linked to Grindelwald. She’ll second-guess her own interpretations when she hears the talk.”

Hermione sighed. “Tom, I hope you realize, I should turn this in.”

“You won’t, though,” he said smugly. “Now, shall we have breakfast?”

As she headed up to the Great Hall with him, she realized with a sinking feeling that he was right. She wouldn’t. And she was not ready to face what that meant.


	9. Propaganda Restriction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a treat at the end of this chapter. Thanks so much for all the feedback!

When Druella Rosier finally emerged from the infirmary, she walked into the seventh year girls’ dormitory with wary, rather frightened eyes. She also had not a single word to say to Hermione. Tom had been correct, apparently.

It was something of a relief not to be the target of this girl’s juvenile baiting, but Hermione was still not happy about it. It was obvious to her that Druella had been jealous of Hermione over Tom’s attention, and probably dissatisfied with her own arranged betrothal to a fourth year boy. Hermione could not particularly blame her for that. Her conduct had been annoying, but it was just typical Hogwarts fare to Hermione. She had lived through so much that such things did not bother her beyond the initial spark of anger. Tom’s reaction to it was, in her view, completely out of proportion—and all the more so since he had indicated that, in part, the cursing was because of a person who did not even exist yet.

More troubling was the fact that, as far as she could see, she had _helped_ Tom. “I know what not to do,” he had said. The implications of that were profoundly disturbing.

And yet, if he did not adopt blood purity ideology and did not become insane… would it be so bad if he sought political power? From what Hermione had learned from Harry, she knew that there were basically three options in the original timeline. He could launch a career at the Ministry, get hired at Hogwarts, or go to work at Borgin and Burkes to track down prospective Horcrux vessels. Obviously, the last option was not desirable… and the second one wouldn’t happen. Even Dippet would tell him that he was too young, and Dumbledore would not ever want him as a teacher in the school. It seemed that pursuing legitimate political power was actually the best choice he could make, strange and counter-intuitive as that idea felt to Hermione.

She had just decided on this course, encouraging him in that interest, when she received a note from Dumbledore requesting a private meeting the next day.

* * *

Hermione stumbled into the Deputy Headmaster’s office with her nerves on edge. She had worried and fretted the entire time that this was going to be about the Imperiusing of Roland Lestrange and the Dark Arts curse on Druella Rosier, and the prospect of discussing that was terrifying to her. If Dumbledore knew that Tom had done it and meant to get him expelled, it could be disastrous. It would leave him with no options _except_ to run to some place like Albania and consort with the very people who would ruin everything. Or—she shuddered—he might even decide that his best option was to go to Germany and sign up with Grindelwald. Grindelwald himself, after all, had been expelled from Durmstrang, leaving him with no viable path to power except leading a violent revolution—an environment that did not exactly lend itself to moderation of views.

If it came to that, Hermione decided, she would remind Dumbledore of this fact.

“Enter,” he called out when she knocked on his door.

Gingerly she stepped inside. Dumbledore was seated behind his desk smiling beatifically. It did not soothe Hermione’s nerves. She took a seat in front of the desk and looked down at her hands.

“My dear Miss Green, how are you doing?”

“Well enough, Professor,” she said. “I’m mostly settled in now.”

“That’s a good thing,” Dumbledore said. “A good thing.” He pushed his candy dish forward. “Please, help yourself.”

Hermione took a piece of hard candy and popped it into her mouth. It was a source of stress relief to have something to focus her senses upon.

“The reason I called you here, Miss Green, is that I’m concerned about something that has… been pointed out to me. You know my family history, as you indicated the first time we met. I do not know if you know anything else, but… there was a brief time, the summer after I finished Hogwarts, in which I knew Gellert Grindelwald.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione said. “I know about that as well.”

Dumbledore looked surprised for a moment, as well as alarmed. Then his face shifted back in place. “I see,” he said. “It seems that in the future, much that I sought to hide, out of shame, is brought forward. Undoubtedly I deserve it.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Well, that makes this discussion shorter. Essentially, it has occurred to me that Grindelwald might know that you are not related to me, that instead you have a secret that I am helping protect, and he might target you as a result. Not as a victim of his violence, but as a tool.”

_He already has._

It was on the tip of her tongue to confess to Dumbledore that when she disappeared in Hogsmeade, she had not been unconscious on the edge of the forest, but in the custody of Grindelwald, and he had made her an offer. She was so close. This was _Dumbledore,_ after all. Surely this was something he should know.

But she could not put the thought out of her mind that Dumbledore might have set her up to be targeted on purpose, to draw Grindelwald out. Tom certainly thought it a strong possibility, even if he did also think there might be another spy present. Hermione filed away on her mental to-do list that she needed to ask him more about that.

“Grindelwald is a very persuasive man,” Dumbledore continued. “As you know, if you know my past. He offers people things that he cannot possibly give, but his charisma is such that he convinces them he can. I have to ask you, Miss Green, that if you ever receive communication from Grindelwald’s agents, to not give it a second’s consideration.”

“Of course, Professor,” she said in natural tones. “I have no intention of having anything to do with Grindelwald. He is a violent rabble-rouser. I am interested in politics, but nothing like that. In my own time, I wanted to join the Ministry as a career.”

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed approvingly. “Good. Then in that case, I think you will very much enjoy something I have helped to arrange. Professor Slughorn tells me that you are a member of his social club and attend the dinners. I have recommended a special guest for the next one, a protégé of my own, you might say, from the Ministry. Professor Slughorn has confirmed that this individual will be the guest of honor at your next dinner.”

Hermione hardly knew what to think. This was not at all what she had expected the meeting to be about. However, she was so relieved that Dumbledore was not interrogating her about Tom’s activities that she could not think about what it might mean.

“Of course, Professor. I look forward to it.”

* * *

“And for tonight’s meeting, I would like to introduce Mr. Septimus Weasley, Head of the Office of Domestic Wartime Operations in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Hermione clapped with the rest of the Slug Club members as a red-haired, bespectacled man ascended to the podium. Septimus Weasley looked and carried himself like a doppelgänger of Percy, and it was unnerving, yet another ghost from her future. As soon as he opened his mouth, she knew that this man—probably the grandfather of the Weasleys of her time, she thought with a pang—was an early version of Percy in more than just his looks.

“Good evening,” he said in a pedantic tone. “I extend my thanks to Professor Slughorn for the invitation to address you. I am here tonight to talk to you about the current legislation proposed by my office to fight the war against Grindelwald, in keeping with Minister Spencer-Moon’s plan to defeat the movement that threatens us all.”

Hermione glanced at Tom, who was, naturally, seated next to her with his arm around her waist. He was gazing warily at Weasley, his mouth set in a profoundly skeptical expression. Hermione wondered what that was all about. Had Tom already begun to study the policies of various offices in the Ministry and disapproved of what Weasley was doing? It seemed probable, and Hermione found—somewhat to her dismay—that Tom’s skepticism was prejudicing her against Weasley’s message before he even began to speak.

_Voldemort is prejudicing me against a Weasley._ It almost made her laugh. But then, Tom was not Voldemort. Not the Voldemort she had known.

Still, she decided to listen to Septimus Weasley and give him the benefit of a doubt. The shock of learning about the revisionist history of Grindelwald had thoroughly jolted her as to the folly—and danger—of not forming her own opinions, but adopting someone else’s out of deference to authority. And Tom was hardly even an expert authority, after all.

“My office is currently close to finalizing and proposing two laws to help fight the war,” Weasley droned, not looking at any of the students to whom he was speaking. “We have also written them in a such a way that would permit the provisions to be used in times of peace as well, for the benefit of wizarding society. Many times we forget that the measures that we know, without question, are necessary in war are also good ideas in times of peace, to prevent war from again breaking out.”

Tom’s eyebrows narrowed. Hermione felt a jolt of alarm. She knew enough about Muggle history and Muggle society to be very, very concerned whenever wartime legislation was employed in peacetime….

“The first such legislation is the Authorization for the Seizure of Dark or Dangerous Artifacts. Ministry intelligence indicates that Grindelwald’s movement heavily deploys Dark artifacts in its campaign of violence against our European allies. This law would permit the confiscation on sight of any Dark or dangerous object brought out of one’s home or Gringotts vault, without any cumbersome and delaying bureaucratic paperwork.”

_“He means without a warrant,”_ Tom hissed in Hermione’s ear. She did not need elucidation.

“There are exceptions for Ministry-licensed and carefully regulated shops, out of deference to the expertise of shop proprietors in handling these objects.”

_“Out of deference to the gold the Ministry gets from Caractacus Burke,”_ Tom whispered. She stifled a laugh.

“It is the goal of my office to implement a provision allowing for open-ended search and seizure operations on the homes of Dark wizards, as well,” Weasley continued. “This provision would require warrants to enter a home, but not to seize any specific Dark or dangerous artifact. We currently have difficulties from Ministry allies who have concerns about this provision, but we hope to work it out.”

_“They don’t want to lose Arcturus Black’s financial support,”_ Tom whispered. To Hermione’s surprise, he raised his hand and called out, in his normal tone of voice, “Mr. Weasley, I have a question.”

Weasley looked surprised that anyone had said anything. Apparently he was used to giving speeches with no response. Hermione was somehow not surprised by that. As she glanced around, she noticed that Slughorn was looking at Tom with interest—and anxiety.

“Under what circumstances would a warrant be issued to search someone’s home?” he asked. “I presume, the commission of a crime in which Dark artifacts were thought to be involved, and the wizard in question is a suspect?”

“In fact, it is the judgment of my office that there is no good reason for any wizard to hoard dangerous artifacts,” Weasley said primly. “There is the inherent risk of these objects being released into the wizarding, or worse, Muggle worlds, and causing havoc. The provision would ideally permit a Ministry raid when there is suspicion that such objects are being stockpiled at all.”

Hermione had a sudden flashback to her past—or the future—or possible future, she amended. It was the summer after first year, when Ron’s dad was heading up raids on wizarding homes for Dark objects, including Malfoy Manor. _Open-ended_ raids, she thought. There was also the summer before sixth year, when Harry was suspicious of Draco Malfoy… but at that point, Lucius Malfoy was a convicted criminal. He had not been in their first summer. He had not been suspected in anything.

And they hadn’t even worked in either case.

She also recalled the number of Dark artifacts in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Clearly there had never been a raid there. Arcturus Black’s gold went far indeed.

Hermione felt troubled. She had profoundly disliked Lucius Malfoy, but her inner sense of justice was now troubled at the thought of Ministry bureaucrats breaking down doors, _select_ doors at that, to confiscate anything they happened to decide was dangerous. She remembered how Hagrid, of all people, had been carted off to Azkaban in second year for the mere possibility of owning a Dark creature. She herself owned quite a number of objects that might qualify as dangerous or even Dark under the law, especially books.

Even worse, the law would accustom witches and wizards to the idea and set the stage for further restrictions to take place later. Hermione realized that she was watching history play out before her eyes.

There was murmuring among the boys of the Slug Club about the exchange between Weasley and Tom. Weasley looked affronted, and Slughorn tried to come to the rescue. “Some of my students are very interested in Ministry policy, Mr. Weasley,” he said hurriedly. “Very promising, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Quite,” Weasley said stiffly. He forced a smile on his face. “There is always spirited debate occurring at the Ministry, particularly Magical Law Enforcement. But since we have limited time tonight, I’m afraid I must continue. I will now discuss the second proposed law my office has developed, the Propaganda Restriction Act.”

Hermione suddenly sat upright. So did Tom.

“Much of Grindelwald’s success can be attributed to the effective distribution of propaganda. His flyers have blanketed Central Europe. Wizarding Britain has fortunately been spared the propaganda effort of this Dark wizard, largely due to the intimidating presence of Professor Albus Dumbledore.”

Tom’s features contorted into a disdainful snarl for a second. Then he rearranged his face to the perfect studious listener’s visage it had been a moment before.

“If Grindelwald should wish to wage a war of ideas in our country, there would be no laws to prevent the possession of his seditious literature. My office aims to change that, and as with the Authorization for the Seizure of Dark or Dangerous Artifacts, the Propaganda Restriction Act would not expire at the conclusion of the war and could be lawfully employed in peacetime.”

Hermione’s attention was riveted. She had a terrible feeling that she knew where this was going….

“The law would grant the Ministry of Magic authority to limit the publication and ownership of seditious or dangerous material,” Weasley continued pedantically. “A law restricting the ownership specifically of _wartime enemy_ propaganda is highly limited, and even worse, it requires a war to be in place before it can be enforced. As Grindelwald has taught us, wars break out because of failures to control such dangerous propaganda before the violence begins.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione interrupted. “What, exactly, constitutes ‘dangerous propaganda’ in peacetime? Incitements to violence?”

Weasley peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “The legislation allows the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to determine that definition based on current circumstances.”

_Holy bloody hell,_ she thought. Suddenly the image flashed through her memories of the DMLE, under Yaxley, persecuting Muggle-borns, the violent suppression of the _Quibbler,_ and Dolores Umbridge ordering the publication of anti-“Mudblood” pamphlets.

She recalled the _Daily Prophet_ campaign against Harry throughout fourth and fifth year.

She remembered, more recently, that all accurate information about Gellert Grindelwald had been suppressed and apparently destroyed by her time. Dumbledore was going to defeat him. Weasley was Dumbledore’s favorite protégé in the Ministry.  Dumbledore had removed Dark Arts books from Hogwarts’s library too, holding them in his own office even when he had sent three students on a mission to destroy an incredibly difficult-to-destroy sort of Dark object. He had no objection to choosing what information people were given.

She stood up beside her chair. “But Mr. Weasley, what would prevent the law from being used to enforce the political whim of whatever faction happened to control the Ministry at the time, while suppressing the views of the opposition?”

Tom gazed up at Hermione in undisguised admiration.

The rest of the Slug Club broke out in muttering. On the podium, Weasley sputtered.

“My dear young lady, the political factions of the British wizarding world have certainly been at each other’s throats in the arena of politics, and have many policy disagreements, but it is appalling that you would think either of our factions would wish to do that to the other!”

_I’m absolutely certain now that both would,_ she thought grimly, but she merely gazed back at him with an expressionless face. “Then what is an example of a seditious view that the Ministry would suppress in peacetime? I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley, but I am simply trying to understand how this law would be used.” She spread her hands openly and forced a smile on her face.

Weasley gazed back at her. “Well… Grindelwald’s message, for example, is based on the view that wizards are under threat by Muggles. This is obviously ridiculous, but it is very damaging to wizarding morale and leaves the magical population open to his propaganda.”

Tom stood up. “Obviously ridiculous? Mr. Weasley, there is an incredibly destructive Muggle war going on. Wizards in Europe are flocking to Grindelwald because their Ministries have not kept them safe from the Muggles’ weapons.”

Weasley gaped. “Mr.—”

“Riddle.”

“Mr. Riddle, the Muggles do not have any weapons that can penetrate magical shields.”

“Perhaps not,” he said coolly, “but those magical shields have to be in place. The Muggles have bombs that can set cities on fire, and have deployed them in their war. Wizards living there would have to have specific anti-fire and anti-explosion shields up.”

Hermione suddenly realized that Tom had lived in London, which was being attacked by German Muggle aircraft. He knew of what he was speaking. She also recalled from her Muggle history that cities had been firebombed in this war….

…And that in less than a year, Muggles would launch the nuclear age.

“It is their responsibility to protect their homes,” Weasley said. “Their Ministries—”

“Have been telling them that the Muggle war cannot affect them,” Tom interrupted. “But it has been, and that is why they are gravitating to Grindelwald.”

Weasley was speechless. Slughorn put his hands over his eyes.

Roland Lestrange stood up. He sneered at Riddle. “That _sounds_ like Grindelwald to me,” he scoffed. “‘Beware the Muggles and their dangerous weapons.’ They’re _Muggles,_ Riddle. They’re stupid and primitive. They have to be, since they don’t have magic. They never even burned a witch in the old days.”

“You don’t know that,” Tom muttered, glaring furiously at his disobedient Knight.

“Now, just a minute,” Weasley put in. “Muggles are our neighbors, and it is our responsibility to protect them from magic, not abuse and exploit them.”

“Of course it is, Mr. Weasley, but we also have to protect ourselves,” Hermione said. “Just because Grindelwald is the most prominent person saying something doesn’t mean it is automatically untrue. Tom is correct that the Muggles have very destructive weapons.”

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

She smiled at him and turned back to Weasley. “But to return to the actual topic at hand, this is the very concern I have with the law as you described it, Mr. Weasley. I agree that Grindelwald is dangerous, but I don’t think the way to combat him is to disregard the things he says that people know from their own experiences to be true. And I still think there is great potential for abuse for political purposes.”

Slughorn stood up, smiling, though his forehead was creased and sweaty and his hands were trembling a little. “This has been an excellent forum, and I’m sure Mr. Weasley is duly impressed with the mental caliber of Hogwarts students and their interest in wizarding affairs,” he said.

Weasley gave Slughorn a thin smile. “Of course, Professor Slughorn. It is always a… pleasure to see young people taking an interest in Ministry policy. However, I am afraid I must cut the talk short. I understand that these meetings also have a dinner….”

“Indeed they do, Septimus, indeed they do,” Slughorn said. “You are most welcome to join us.”

The dinner was much more subdued than the typical Slug Club dinner. Slughorn looked nervous and concerned about what had happened. Weasley was offended at being debated. Tom shot glares at Roland Lestrange throughout the meal, clearly very angry with being publicly challenged. Hermione did not particularly want to know what he intended to do to Lestrange afterward. She hoped she did not find out.

She was more surprised at herself. Then again, she remembered, she had really begun to stand up to wrongheaded authority figures in fifth year, with Dolores Umbridge and then the Minister himself. And for the past year of her life in her original time, she had been officially an outlaw and a rebel.

Besides, that Propaganda Restriction Act _was_ a bad piece of legislation. Should it be passed, they would feel its chilling effects for the next fifty years. It _would_ be abused by whichever political faction happened to run the Ministry at the time. The Authorization for the Seizure of Dark or Dangerous Artifacts was almost as bad in its own way. Of course it was necessary to prevent hostile items from falling into Muggle hands, but this type of law was far too sweeping.

And the Ministry was completely off about how to deal with Grindelwald. Patronizing Muggles the way Weasley started to, focusing on how much they needed to be protected, only enabled the blood-purity fanatics to believe their own bigoted views about how useless and—what had Lestrange said?—primitive Muggles were. She knew personally that they were neither. Their advancements posed a threat but also offered promise. And wizards were denying both. Well, everyone except a radical violent revolutionary.

Hermione realized that she was committed to helping Tom launch a political career. Tom seemed to be fully in agreement about the threat. In time, he might be persuaded to agree about the promise. Hermione hoped so.

When the meeting dismissed, Tom took Lestrange aside in the hallway and out of Hermione’s earshot. She watched as he obviously threatened him, his face twisting in anger, his wand twitching in his hand. Lestrange shrank back, looking very relieved when Tom let him go.

He returned to Hermione and pasted a smile on his face. “All right, that’s taken care of. You were magnificent tonight, by the way.”

He did not appear to be offering false flattery. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat.

“What you said is true, though,” she said in a quiet tone. “I—well, it won’t change anything for me to tell you this, since it’s the Muggle world, but in less than a year, Muggles will be able to destroy entire cities with a single bomb, and it will actually poison the air and the environment for years and years afterward.”

Tom looked horrified. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“And these idiots— _all_ of them—refuse to see it.”

Hermione decided not to remind him that his own alternate future self was among those people.

“I’ve got to do something,” he murmured. “The wizarding world—it’s so important to me, I can’t let it shrivel up and die, and it’s going to, Hermione. The Muggles”—he looked disgusted at the admission he was making—“are going to outstrip us. We have to change.”

She nodded. He was very close. It was distracting, though she could not have said from what it was distracting her.

“You’re with me?”

She nodded again. She had a feeling that he was asking her a great deal more than whether she happened to agree with the statement he had just made. She did not even know exactly what she was agreeing to, but she was with him anyway.

“Good,” he whispered.

He leaned forward. Hermione backed up involuntarily, touching the stone wall. It was cold, and the contrast between the cold stone and their warm bodies was… enticing.

He placed hands on either side of her face, millimeters away. His mouth curled into a smirk. “Are you trying to get away from me?” he said in a low growl.

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said again in that silky tone of his. He stroked her cheek with one finger. She closed her eyes and shivered. “Because you won’t. You’re _mine.”_

The tone was almost threatening, but she could not think too hard about that—or anything else, right at the moment. He closed the gap, all the gaps. He took her face in his hands, pressed himself against her down to their waists, and seized her lips aggressively with his.

If she had been able to think about it, she would not have been remotely surprised that he would take total control of a kiss immediately. It fit him to do so, very evidently. He forced her lips apart and began to plunder her mouth. One of his hands dropped from her cheek and trailed down her neck, her clavicle, down to her chest.

_“Mine,”_ he repeated in a murmur against her mouth.

Hermione reached out and threaded her fingers into his hair—his _perfect_ hair, she thought. It would be mussed after this. The image brought a thrill that curled out from her lower pelvis.  She thought briefly that she was kissing the Dark Lord, but instantly banished that idea. She wasn’t. The “Dark Lord” was not a person, but a persona, and it did not exist now. This was just Tom. He was dark, but not too dark for her. Not anymore. Not considering what the last year had made of her.

He nipped at her lips with his teeth, provoking a moan from her. She felt him smirk against her lips at her reaction.  He stroked her cheek and reached farther back with the hand that remained on her face, cupping her entire face and slipping his fingers partly into her hair. He ran a single finger along the back of her ear, stroking the thin and sensitive skin. She shuddered with pleasure. In response she tugged lightly at his hair and nipped at his lips in return, eliciting a grunt of surprise from him.

“You’re bold to do that,” he murmured. “Gryffindor.” He reached down the low neckline of her dress—it was dark green, chosen to match his House tie—and slipped his fingertips underneath the fabric. He stroked gently for a second before quickly drawing back, as if in shock at what he had started to do, and brought it back to her cheek.

“Mine,” he said again, finally breaking the kiss. He drew back just enough to look at her. His face was satisfied and even smug.

Hermione’s heart was thudding. That… was intense. Neither Viktor nor Ron had kissed her like that. Viktor, she thought idly, probably would have been capable of it if she had not been just fifteen while he was legally of age. But at the moment she could not think too long of being kissed by anyone but Tom.

It was all right, she thought, that he was so possessive. That also fit him. And so help her, but in this time, she was completely alone otherwise, and if she did “belong” to him—well, she couldn’t object too much.

His hair, Hermione noticed, _was_ mussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A larger version of the illustration can be found [on my Tumblr](http://betagyre-penname.tumblr.com/post/143039912519/illustration-3). Click on the image in the Tumblr post for it.


	10. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for the feedback and support! Things are going to happen really soon, and all sorts of people are Up to Something.

Hermione thought about that kiss for hours. Part of her screamed that it was not real, that Tom was just manipulating her, and that she should not allow it to happen again. The greater part of her reassured her that it was real, that he was truly impressed with her in the Slug Club meeting, and that there had been an undercurrent of repressed desire beneath the surface between them for weeks—no, at this point, months.

 _He finally expressed his desire because of my performance in a political debate._ The idea amused Hermione, but it seemed to be true. That in itself was promising, considering what she hoped to foster in him for the sake of the future.

 _Was_ it for the sake of the future anymore, though? Hermione wondered about that. If she succeeded at changing the future so Voldemort did not exist, then it would profoundly change the experiences of everyone in the wizarding world that she had known. It would be a good future, but she would be alone in remembering what it had once been.

She would, she realized, never go home again if that happened. Not even if she found a way to travel into the future from this time. It wouldn’t be the same. In many ways, it would not even be similar.

Maybe she _was_ trying to save him personally. His reaction to being told what he would otherwise become was somewhat troubling; he had focused more on his own personal failures than anything else, but… at least he had not been _pleased_ with it. At least he had wanted to do some things differently. He was a self-centered person; she knew that. She supposed it was probably too much to ask of him to immediately change the way he made decisions. At least this way she could convince him—had convinced him, it would seem—that it was profoundly against his self-interest to follow that path.

However, she could not forget the thought she had after they had kissed, that she was all right “belonging” to him because there was no one else. Was that a good enough reason to become invested in someone? Hermione was not sure.

 _He isn’t just anyone, though,_ she thought. Even when they were pretending to be a couple, they had had a decent “professional” relationship revolving around academics and magical theory. She had never had that with anyone else. And Tom was interested in the politics of the wizarding world, which was also a passion Hermione had never shared with anyone. Certainly not Ron, and not even Harry, at least not to the same extent. Not with Viktor. No, there was a _rational_ basis for being interested in Tom’s personal outcome. There was a reason he had gravitated to— _no,_ she corrected herself with the thought half-formed, the initial reason had been that she was a curiosity and a mystery to him, but he had stayed interested because they did have these things in common.

The next morning, Hermione met him in the common room, trying to suppress the smile on her face. It would not do to immediately start simpering around him when he was present.

He raised an eyebrow knowingly at her and took her arm. She returned the sideways grin and walked with him out of the common room.

The second they were in the hallway, he whirled her into a door frame for one of the empty rooms and took her in his arms. Hermione gasped; his embrace was very firm, the sort that he did not mean her to escape until he was ready to let her go.

“I don’t think we have to pretend anymore,” he murmured as he planted a kiss on her mouth.

* * *

One of the first things Hermione had done when she began this school year was to take out a subscription to the newspaper. She had no correspondents even in her own time, so she did not specifically miss that aspect of owl post. The familiarity was comforting, and she figured she needed to know what was going on with the war against Grindelwald just as she had needed to know what the _Prophet_ was saying about Harry or what attacks the Death Eaters had made in the past week.

The war, it appeared, was not going well for Grindelwald anymore. Hermione had to admit to a degree of skepticism about anything that newspaper might say, but unless it was fabricating details or omitting other details, it seemed that the allied Ministries were finally having some successes against his army. By next summer, his movement should be in tatters, and he himself would issue an ultimatum that he would never come quietly unless Albus Dumbledore finally dueled him.

For some reason, the prospect was unsettling to Hermione. Perhaps it was because she no longer trusted Dumbledore to push for good policy over the next decades. At the moment he was considered an extremely powerful wizard, a brilliant academic, and the premier magical mind of Britain. He had some political influence, but apparently the defeat of Grindelwald would accelerate his career as a political power-broker. That would be the event that would propel him to the seat of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

Tom interrupted her musings by sitting down next to her. “Hogsmeade?” he asked.

She nodded, finishing her juice.

* * *

Tom was not the sort of person who would take a date to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, which was fine with Hermione. She didn’t like the place either. It was also somehow beneath them, intellectually advanced and worldly wise as they were. They walked into the Three Broomsticks and, by unspoken mutual agreement, headed to the small table in the dimmest, most remote corner of the tavern.

He was surprised when she wanted a firewhisky, visibly raising his eyebrows. The corners of his mouth curled upward in a smirk, but he bustled off to the bar to order the drinks.

No sooner had he returned and set the smoking glasses down on the table than a rap on a back window sounded. Tom smacked the side of his head. “Damn,” he swore. “I forgot. I’ll be back in a minute, Hermione.” Leaving the glass of Ogden’s on the table, he grabbed his cloak and departed out the back door.

Hermione was curious. She cast an anti-spilling charm on the glasses and picked them up, carrying them toward the back. Tom was waiting outside the back entrance of the pub and releasing an owl from a piece of mail. The bird hovered nearby, waiting for a reply. Hermione opened the window a tiny crack, just enough to hear him if he said anything.

He scowled as he read over the letter, then removed his wand and set it on fire. The ash scattered among the snow-topped leaves. Then he removed a piece of his own parchment and began to compose a response. “The fool,” he muttered.

Hermione tried to lean forward enough to catch what he was writing without being noticed. It was difficult. She squinted and thought she might have caught the word “Lestrange.”

That was peculiar. Was it seventh year Lestrange at Hogwarts? Why would Tom be writing anyone about his… whatever they were? Pack, she supposed. _Unless it means another Lestrange,_ she thought. The family was prominent. It could be someone else.

Tom rolled up the parchment, cast a spell on it, and attached it to the bird’s leg. Hermione scurried back to the table and lifted the charm from the glasses as he entered the tavern again. He smiled as he saw her and went back to the table.

She was bursting with curiosity, but she did not want to reveal that she had eavesdropped. “What was that about?” she asked, sipping her firewhisky.

He hesitated for a moment. “A correspondent.”

“A correspondent whose owls don’t deliver the mail in the Great Hall, evidently. You said you forgot, so you must have expected it.”

Tom nodded, looking into his glass as he sipped. “I have a number of correspondents. Some of them prefer that sort of privacy.”

Hermione felt discomfited. When she and her friends had private correspondence, it was with Sirius Black, who was an Azkaban escapee. Wrongly imprisoned, yes, but nonetheless…. Surely Tom was not already making dodgy connections in Central and Eastern Europe. Surely that came after he left Borgin and Burkes in the old timeline. “What sorts of correspondents?” she asked.

He drank a large sip of whiskey and swallowed hard. “Ministry people, people Slughorn has recommended me to, that sort of thing.”

 _Well, that would certainly explain calling the person a fool, whoever it is,_ Hermione thought wryly. It also could explain the reference to a Lestrange and the expectation of privacy. She decided not to worry about it.

* * *

Professor Slughorn was hosting a holiday party. Most of the upper-level Slytherin students, and several of the upper-level students in the other houses, talked incessantly about the news as soon as he announced it. The ones who had invitations—or dates with someone who had an invitation—were gleeful; the ones who were too young to be invited were envious in a hopeful way; the ones who were old enough but not part of the Slug Club were bitterly envious.

Hermione was, of course, going as Tom’s date and as an invitee. She intended to dazzle in black and winter white; Tom was going to go in a set of dress robes in black, dark grey, and green.

Lucretia Black was also attending the party, although she was not in the Slug Club itself. Just as in her own time, Slughorn had invited several “distinguished” guests, including the DMLE Head, Pollux Black, who had been at a Slug Club dinner before. There was even a rumor passed excitedly around the school that the Minister for Magic himself would try to make a brief appearance. But most pertinently to Lucretia was the fact that her fiancé, Ignatius Prewett, an up-and-coming Curse-Breaker at Gringotts, would be attending. She would be his date.

Of Hermione’s roommates, Lucretia had been by far the least offensive. She had never made catty remarks, like Druella Rosier, or alternated between shifty silence and banshee-like screechy complaints, like Walburga Black. She had simply been chilly and businesslike. Early in the term, Hermione had hoped that Lucretia might warm up to her, but it had never happened. She had not given much thought to her afterward, because Lucretia did not cause problems or anxiety for her, unlike virtually everyone else in Slytherin House, including, yes, Tom. But as the two girls prepared for the party, it occurred to Hermione that she might have missed a chance.

“What is he like?” she asked quietly, referring to Prewett. The name sounded somehow familiar to her.

Lucretia rubbed Sleekeazy into her hair and began to charm it. “He’s fun,” she said. “He was a Gryffindor. Two years older than I am. Adventurous. Very talented at Defense.” She paused. “We have always been friends.”

“Well, that’s good,” Hermione said. Reading between the lines, she could figure out that this was also a set-up match, so at least there was a friendship. “I… suppose it must be hard to be in that situation and watch people flirt and date in Hogwarts.”

Lucretia smiled and raised an eyebrow at Hermione. “I think you are under a misapprehension about something. It isn’t like Druella and Walburga’s situations, where both sets of parents set it up. He was fourteen and I was twelve, and we decided to tell our parents ourselves that we wanted it— _before_ I was betrothed to anyone else. We both knew that would happen to me otherwise and so we took the initiative. My father had no objection, since he is a pureblood from an old family. It’s fine, Hermione, really. I’m sure that Dumbledore doesn’t do things this way, but I’m fine. I’m glad that you’ve attracted Riddle’s attention. You should hold on to him. He will go far.”

Hermione hardly knew what to say, but somehow it did not surprise her that Lucretia had been made a prefect—a leader—nor that she had been placed in Slytherin. That sort of calculation was a perfect fit. It was clearly not simply a case of self-sorting from family pressure, where she all but told the Sorting Hat where to put her.

She suddenly realized that she thought she knew who Ignatius Prewett was. Ron had mentioned having a rich uncle. Mrs. Weasley’s maiden name had been Prewett. It was distinctly possible that this was the uncle, or more probably great-uncle. If he worked at Gringotts, it was definitely plausible.

Feeling better, Hermione took the Sleekeazy to her own hair, taming it into an attractive forties style. She smiled at herself in the mirror before heading into the common room to meet Tom.

He looked confident, superior, and yet also pleased to see her—and impressed with her appearance. The dark colors of his dress robes suited him. He took her hand and brought it to his lips chivalrously before giving her an intense, dark, hungry gaze that sent thrills down her body.

 _That’s enough of that,_ she scolded herself in thought. _You are going to a party to hobnob with Ministry figures._ But it was hard to completely banish the thoughts.

The upperclassmen who were going to the party left the common room in pairs or small groups. Tom said nothing until they reached the room. Then he took her aside and leaned over next to her ear.

“Mix if you must, but don’t be alone with Rosier, Lestrange, Avery, or for that matter, Pollux Black,” he whispered.

The good feeling vanished, replaced by a cold chill. “I have no desire to, but do you really think they would try anything at a party? Especially a Ministry official?” she asked.

“They don’t like you, so I don’t know what they might do. Just avoid them.”

Hermione did not have time to ask why he thought that Black disliked her, because he opened the door to the party room and strode in with her, a confident smile pasted on his face. Slughorn instantly identified his favorite couple and bustled over to greet them.

“Tom, m’boy, wonderful to see you! And Miss Green! Fantastic. Perhaps I should give Albus a heads-up to expect a query from you soon, eh, Tom?” he finished with an emphatic wink.

Hermione blushed at the implication, then wondered if Slughorn even remembered that she was not actually related to Dumbledore. He was certainly more natural rattling off the reference to their “relationship” than he had been earlier in the year, and she knew from… former history… that he could easily convince himself of falsehoods.

Tom merely smiled benignly. “Miss Green and I have not discussed any such thing, Professor. We still have our NEWTs, after all.”

“Oh of course, so studious and responsible, both of you. Well, whenever the time is right, I look forward to hearing it. Welcome to you both, by the way. Alphard over there has the champagne. Do take a glass. It’s an excellent one….”

 _He sounds as if he’s already had too much champagne,_ Hermione thought as she and Tom headed to where a tall, muscular boy held a tray. She recognized this as Alphard Black, a fifth year and a Chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team.

And as the uncle of Sirius Black who had given him gold when he ran away and got himself blasted off the family tapestry for it.

“Riddle,” Alphard said as the Head Boy came up. “Good to see you. I’m avoiding my father.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “He’s here already?”

Alphard nodded dolefully. “It’s all right, though, because I think he is avoiding me too.”

There seemed to be a subtext, or history, that Hermione did not understand. “You and your father don’t get on?” she said.

“I want to play professional Quidditch, and he doesn’t think it’s dignified enough,” Alphard muttered. “What I think is that he doesn’t want me to make my own fortune.”

 _Probably not,_ Hermione thought, thinking of the future.

“Oh damn it, there he is,” Alphard said with a groan. “Sluggy is leading him over here. Look, take your champagne and get away. He wants him to see _you.”_ He shoved glasses at Tom and Hermione.

With a disdainful shake of his head that Alphard did not notice, Tom picked up his glass and escorted Hermione away from the boy. Sure enough, Slughorn was gesturing happily, with Pollux Black standing beside him with a sour look on his goateed face. Tom’s eyes widened with surprise at the third man in the small group.

“That’s the Minister!” he hissed at Hermione. “Come on, we actually should meet him.”

Hermione’s heart started to pound as she headed over. The Minister, Leonard Spencer-Moon, was in middle age and resembled Cornelius Fudge physically, except that he was not so portly. She recalled reading that this Minister was thought by historians to be very effective in the war against Grindelwald and had been highly popular. Hermione remembered that he had apparently acquired the support of Arcturus Black, even going so far as to give Arcturus’s cousin a Department Head position. Yet from everything she knew about the time—everything that she could still believe, at least—the Minister also had Dumbledore’s support.

That was probably why he was considered popular and effective, she realized.

“Tom!” Slughorn barked as they joined the cluster of people. “Delightful. This is Minister Spencer-Moon, and Pollux Black, as you know. Gentlemen, a pair of my best students— _the_ best, if you ask me,” he added in an undertone with a wink, “the Head Boy, Tom Riddle, and Hermione Green, a cousin of Dumbledore’s.”

The Minister extended his hand politely to Hermione and Tom. “Pleasure,” he said.

“Mr. Riddle and Miss Green are very interested in Ministry policy,” Slughorn said. “They both are seeking careers there.”

The Minister nodded. “It’s always a fine thing to see bright young wizards—and witches—taking an interest in the matters of their world.”

“Yes, many young people have ideas,” Black said. “Of course, as soon as they enter the Ministry, they realize that they cannot always put them into action.”

The Minister frowned at Black. “I’m sure that intelligent people such as these students are well aware of how things work in politics. They are in your House, are they not, Horace?”

Slughorn nodded.

“Well, there you have it. If any House could teach them about politics, it is that one. Don’t mind him,” Spencer-Moon said conspiratorially to Tom and Hermione. “He’s like this, just between us.”

Tom smiled insincerely, as the statement was very blatantly _not_ just between them, but said for Black and Slughorn to hear.

Hermione was embarrassed. She did not _dislike_ the Minister, per se, and she could tell that he was charismatic and probably deserved the praise he would receive from historians, but she was not sure she would trust him as an official. He struck her as the type of person who tried to please everyone—and was that rarity who somehow succeeded. It was unnerving. The other person she knew who could do that, she realized, was her date.

“I read in the _Prophet_ that the war is going well,” Hermione said, to change the subject to something that would not humiliate or anger Pollux Black to his face.

The Minister nodded proudly. “Yes, I think we have turned the corner. Of course, they could be crushed if they were—decapitated, if you will. If Grindelwald himself were removed.”

Hermione recognized this as a hint to tell her supposed cousin, Dumbledore, to duel Grindelwald. She smiled blandly. “No doubt, but I have complete faith in the Ministry’s ability to defeat Grindelwald. Our strength is not just in one person, after all.”

Tom turned away with a muffled cough. Hermione was strangely pleased that she had made him laugh with her political simpering.

“Well spoken,” the Minister agreed. He smiled and glanced from Tom to Hermione and back to Tom. “So, you are interested in the Ministry. What department, specifically?”

Hermione noticed that the question seemed to be directed more at Tom. That was vaguely off-putting, but she decided not to let it bother her. “I’ve thought about Magical Law Enforcement, myself,” she said.

“Your division, Pollux!”

Pollux Black looked impassively at her, saying nothing.

“For my part, I’ve considered that and International Magical Cooperation,” said Tom.

The Minister beamed. “Ah, a diplomat, are you? That makes sense, given what your teachers have said of you. Speaking of that….” He gave Slughorn an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot linger.”

Slughorn looked unhappy but resigned. “Of course, Minister, I understand. It was wonderful that you could make it at all.”

Spencer-Moon turned back to Tom and Hermione. “It was a pleasure to meet the both of you. I hope to hear of you joining the Ministry in the next year.” He gave a lopsided smile and a wink as Slughorn began to lead him away.

Tom and Hermione were left with Pollux Black, who glared at them both. Tom edged closer to Hermione involuntarily. She felt his hand touch her waist in a protective, possessive gesture. His politely interested face that he had put on for the Minister shut down at once.

“I heard that the two of you challenged Weasley at your club,” Black said abruptly.

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. Tom’s narrowed. “So we did,” he said coolly. “It’s not illegal—yet—to express an opinion. What of it? You don’t like Weasley anyway.”

Hermione gasped, astonished that he would talk this way to a top Ministry official. He wanted to _join_ the Ministry, did he not? Potentially in Black’s own department, at that! Even if he didn’t trust Black, he could fake politeness and interest for anyone. He was _choosing_ not to. What on earth had provoked this?

Black took a swig of his drink, which Hermione noticed did not appear to be champagne. “I don’t like Weasley,” he admitted, “but if you—or especially your girlfriend here—want _any_ chance of working at the Ministry, you would do well to stop looking so….”

“So….?”

“Disloyal,” Black hissed.

Hermione’s eyebrows remained up. Was Black talking about what it sounded like he was talking about? Had that asinine rumor that she was Grindelwald’s spy reached his ears?

It probably had, she realized. Enough Slytherins seemed to believe it. That was probably what Tom was talking about when he had warned her.

“I assure you, Mr. Black, she is utterly loyal,” Tom said in a low snarl.

“I hope so,” Black said. He sipped his drink again. “It’s… something that occurs to one, you know. What with Dumbledore’s past.”

“Professor Dumbledore’s past has nothing to do with me,” Hermione said.

Black took a final swig, draining the glass. He hiccuped. “Let’s hope for both your sakes that that’s true.”

“Mr. Black, are you threatening us?” Tom asked in a low, dangerous tone.

Hermione gave him an uneasy look. “Tom, I think we should move on.”

Black set his glass down hard on the nearest serving tray. He was obviously tipsy, and Hermione really did not want to remain in this situation any longer. Tom seemed to realize at the same time that Black had had too much to drink. With a disdainful look, he took Hermione’s arm and steered her away.

There were several other guests at the party, though none as high-ranking as Black or Spencer-Moon. Tom did not gravitate to any of them specifically, but instead passed from person to person with that interested, pleasant smile pasted on his face—the one Hermione now knew to be false.

_Well, he wants to be in politics. It’s all right to feign interest. It’s what’s done._

Nothing else untoward happened at the party, though Pollux Black eventually found a cluster of some of Tom’s pack—Lestrange, Rosier, and Avery, Hermione noticed—and talked with them. When Tom saw this, his eyebrows narrowed. He reached briefly for his wand before deciding against it.

“You see them,” he murmured in her ear. “That’s why I said to avoid them. I have… serious questions about their loyalty.”

There it was again, that word. “Their loyalty to—you? Or—”

“To me, yes. Black has a problem with you, and if they are with him, that means they are against me.”

“I… see.” Hermione was rather offended, but she hoped he did not see it. He was implying that she was literally a possession, and that she herself had no stake in the matter.

Tom gave her a penetrating glance. He seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. “Hermione, you should realize that I am different from these buffoons. I do not open myself up easily. In fact, I never have before. If I give you that degree of confidence, it means something. You may call yourself my ‘girlfriend,’ because that is the word that these people understand best, but you had better realize that the usual Hogwarts connotations of it do not suffice. Not even close.”

She stared at him. “But Tom, I’m not your _property.”_

He looked disappointed. “I hope you understand soon, then, that that’s not what I mean either.”

“Tom—”

He held up a hand. “I’ll explain later.”

* * *

After the party, they headed into the hallway with the other stragglers. Slughorn was extremely tipsy, which did not surprise Hermione in the least—and from the look on his face, it did not surprise Tom either. Pollux Black had disappeared at some point.

They walked back to the common room without saying a word. Tom seemed to be brooding, though over what, Hermione could not say. It might be the scheming that he was sure was afoot among Black and some of his pack, or it might even be their exchange about the nature of their relationship.

He did not seem inclined to kiss her in the hallway. She was not sure what she thought about that. Had she somehow offended him?

She did not have much time to think about it, because suddenly, they approached a group of people who were talking in low voices. Tom grabbed Hermione around the waist and pulled her away. With a flick of his wand, he cast a Disillusionment Charm over both of them.

“Tom, isn’t that a bit excessive—” she began to say in a whisper, but quickly stopped talking.

Pollux Black turned a corner and began walking straight at them. He looked smug, his teeth even yellower than usual in the dim light of the dungeons. Tom pulled Hermione against the wall and backed against it as flatly as he could. Black passed by them without noticing. The charm was cast perfectly, it would seem.

 _Of course it is,_ Hermione thought.

They stayed there until they could no longer hear his footsteps. Finally Tom turned to her, lifted the charms on both of them, and gazed at her with a grim expression.

“Well. I’m sure he was up to no good. I don’t suppose I need to remind you—”

“Stay away from them,” Hermione recited. “And I’ve told you before, I don’t even _want_ to be around them. I don’t like them. The problem is that _they_ sometimes hunt _me_ down.”

Tom clenched his wand. “I will make inquiries of them. This is unacceptable. I don’t care who he is. I won’t stand for it.”

 _Inquiries._ Somehow Hermione had a feeling that his inquiries would be conducted with harsh Legilimency and the Cruciatus Curse. She shuddered and glanced away. Black did seem to have it out for her, and if Tom could find out what he was planning, she preferred not to think too hard about how he did it.


	11. Grimmauld Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for detailed torture.** This is one of the chapters for which I intended the archive warning.

The next day was the last full day before Hogwarts dismissed for Christmas break. Tom and Hermione were both staying at the castle. Whatever had been troubling Tom after the holiday party had passed by morning. He was waiting in the Great Hall for Hermione, and he had left a single red rose by her place setting at the table.

She raised an eyebrow as she sat down, turning the rose’s stem in her hands. It still had thorns. Of course it did.

“Thanks, but what’s this about?” she asked him, setting the rose back down.

He merely shrugged and smiled mildly. “I just felt like it.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

 _No you didn’t,_ she thought. Tom Riddle never did anything without a reason. But it would not be productive to interrogate him so ungraciously over what was, purportedly at least, a romantic gift for no specific occasion.

They began to eat. At some point the girls from Hermione’s dorm joined, Walburga and Druella giving her looks of dislike as usual. She was surprised when none of the Knights of Walpurgis showed up for breakfast. She had not seen them in the common room either.

“Did they overindulge last night?” she asked him.

“Probably,” he sneered disdainfully. “Sluggy himself hasn’t put in an appearance either, you notice.”

They finished breakfast and ambled back to the common room together, Hermione holding the rose. As soon as she said the password and opened the door, her jaw dropped.

Lestrange, Rosier, and Avery were huddled near the hearth, clutching glasses of some sort of potion, oblivious to everything else around them. Their arm movements were jerky and pained, and there were bruises present.

Hermione whirled on Tom, outraged. “You—”

“Not a word,” he said softly.

Her finger touched a thorn, and she felt it stab into her skin.

Vincent Rosier turned around. As soon as he saw Tom and Hermione, he ducked back, but not before Hermione saw the evident fear in his eyes.

“We need to talk,” she said almost inaudibly, her eyebrows narrowing. She transferred the rose to her other hand and sucked on the finger that had been pricked, tasting blood.

“Then we’ll talk in my dormitory.”

He strode over to the entrance to the boys’ dorms and let her in. Haughtily she stepped across the threshold and followed him into the seventh year dorm. It was empty.

She shut the door, tossed the rose on his bed, and drew her wand.

“Don’t do it,” he said in a warning tone.

“Then explain.”

He glared. “I think _you_ should explain why you even care about them, but very well. I interrogated them.”

“What did you _do_ to them?” she asked fiercely.

He peered at her. “Do you really want to know?”

“I assume the Cruciatus.”

He did not answer, but continued to stare at her evenly. “I gave them potion for the aftereffects, as you noticed.”

“How very considerate of you.”

Tom’s face changed. The smirk that had been on it vanished, to be replaced by a look of real worry. “You know, Hermione, the real problem is that the interrogation did not turn up anything. They really know nothing. That was why I gave them the potion.”

“What?” Hermione was taken aback. “So you tortured them for no reason?”

“That isn’t what’s important,” he said impatiently. “I wanted information, but they don’t have any. They were only in the process of making a deal with Black. I hope I have put a stop to it now.”

“So is that what you think Black was doing last night?”

“I don’t know what Black was doing, and that troubles me. I’m going to have to ask you to ward your bed at night. I don’t particularly trust your roommates either.”

“Tom, are you sure you aren’t just being overly paranoid?”

“There is no such thing as ‘overly paranoid’ when it comes to your safety,” he hissed. “I started to tell you this last night. You are _special,_ Hermione. I’ve… never met anyone like you before. And I won’t risk anything bad happening to you.”

 _Not “can’t,”_ Hermione thought, _but “won’t.” How utterly… Tom._ Verbally she said, “Tom, I appreciate what you’re saying. I truly do. Considering where I came from, and what you were in that world, I really cannot overstate what it means to me that you would say that. But that isn’t something you can control.”

“I can try!” he exclaimed. “I’m a wizard, and I can do all sorts of things—find out what I need to know to prevent it—I just haven’t looked in the right place yet.”

She sighed. Of course he would think all his problems—or what he perceived to be his problems—would have a magic solution, and it did not matter so much what that solution was. The ends justified the means. She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes. In a moment she felt the mattress shift and his arm snake around her waist.

“If anyone did manage to hurt you, you know what I would do to them,” he said.

She opened her eyes. “Yes, Tom, I do,” she said wearily.

“Good. As long as we both understand that.” He leaned over and reached for her side with his other arm.

Hermione allowed him to pull her close. She touched her nose briefly against his before letting him part her lips with his tongue. He was trying, she told herself as they kissed. At least he did care about someone other than himself. It was not inherently horrible for a man to want to avenge any harm that a woman in his life might suffer at the hands of other people. It was… a form of caring, and she supposed she should encourage it rather than make him believe she did not appreciate him at all. There had already been too much of _that_ in his life.

Gently they fell backward onto his bed. He scrambled for his wand and bespelled the drapes shut. Hermione did not think immediately about what that implied, but as he began to trail kisses down her neck and collarbone, it suddenly hit her.

“Tom, no,” she gasped.

He slipped a hand under her skirt and pushed it up her thigh, making her shiver in pleasure—and indecision about what she had just said. That did feel _really_ good.

His eyes gleamed at the reaction he had produced. “Why not? You saw them in the common room. They won’t be coming back here anytime soon.”

Remembering the tortured roommates completely killed the lustful feelings that Hermione was beginning to experience. He thought it was justified, and as soon as they had discussed it, he had tried to take her to bed. Literally right after implying that he would maim or murder anyone who harmed her. Considered that way, it was outright disturbing.

She placed her palms on Tom’s shoulders and pushed him away. “I don’t want to, that’s why not.”

He sat up and stared at her, his gaze hardening. “You don’t want me?”

“Right now… it isn’t you; it’s just too soon,” she fibbed, “and I… I haven’t ever….” She trailed off uncertainly.

He gazed at her. “If you’re about to tell me you’re a virgin, I figured that from what you told me the day you gave me your memories.” He paused. “Do you think I’m not?”

Hermione sat upright. This situation was almost surreal. She could hardly believe she was discussing prior sexual experience with a seventh year Volde— _no,_ she corrected herself. _No. Tom._

“I really couldn’t have guessed either way,” she replied. “Your kisses are wonderful. I presume you learned that from experience. But you said yourself that you’ve never met anyone like me, so they wouldn’t have meant anything before. Therefore, well….”

He looked offended at this cold assessment. “Therefore, I could just as easily have bedded anyone who would have me in order to satisfy carnal needs. Is that it?”

 _Oh, no. This is bad_. “I didn’t mean that,” she said hurriedly.

“Don’t lie to me. I know when you’re doing it. And for your information,” he snarled, flinging the drapes open and setting his feet on the floor, “the previous kissing experience is _why_ I decided it was demeaning and degrading to me to share _physicality_ with anyone.” He threw her a hostile glare. “Don’t you have a massive tome of extracurricular information to read in the library, or something like that?”

Hermione stared back in astonishment. “Tom, I really meant no offense.”

“Then congratulations, _darling,_ you exceeded expectations. Outstandingly.”

Hermione recognized that as a dismissal. She gaped for another moment, then picked up the rose. As she did, his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, but his face snapped back in place as she left.

* * *

He did not speak to her for the rest of the day, not even at dinner, the final dinner of the calendar year at Hogwarts for most of the students. It would not be so for them, and she doubted that he was sentimental about such things anyway.

Hermione knew she should probably apologize for being so coldly, insultingly rational on a topic that, apparently even for him, was inherently emotional. She was just repulsed by the blasé attitude he’d had about torturing his own roommates and the fact that he would try to seduce her immediately after talking about it—and make an allusion to it in the heat of the moment. That was not normal. He should apologize too, she thought mutinously in her own bed that night. However, she knew he wasn’t likely to.

The next morning, Hermione got up with her roommates, even though she was not going anywhere. Druella Rosier and Walburga Black held their tongues, though Druella could not help but slip her a smug look about remaining at Hogwarts. _It doesn’t matter,_ Hermione thought as she headed down to the Great Hall with them. _At least I’ll have the room to myself until the new term._ She did not bother to bid those two harpies farewell as they headed to the train, but she did give Lucretia a genuine smile, which was returned.

The school felt empty afterward, which she supposed it nearly was. Tom gave her an icy glare as they returned to the building, the only seventh years remaining, and walked back to the Slytherin common room ahead of her without waiting.

 _No more sticking to my side, apparently,_ she thought bitterly, _since everyone he thinks is a threat to me has gone._ She headed back to her own room, closed the door, and went to her desk. Yesterday he had mocked her studiousness, but today she actually did want to read something to take her mind off their dispute.

Hermione frowned as she noticed that one of her roommates’ seventh year books had been left on her desk. It was probably a passive-aggressive act by one of them, a way to show their supposed superiority to her by intruding upon her space. Annoyed, she picked up the book to move it.

There was an unpleasant tug behind her navel. The room quickly began to dissolve and fade. Hermione realized what was happening a half-second too late, as the Portkey hurtled her into darkness.

* * *

Hermione landed in a room inside someone’s house. Green velvet drapes, furniture in green upholstery, and green wallpaper greeted her eyes. A cabinet full of sinister-looking objects loomed in front of her, and more such objects adorned the side tables and mantelpiece.

This room was familiar. Too familiar. Hermione felt a pang at the memories, followed by a flash of fear at the realization that this was not a safe haven, a base of operations for her friends, in 1944. This was—

“Welcome,” oozed a familiar voice. Hermione whirled around and found herself face-to-face with Pollux Black. His wand was out.

Hermione scrambled to her feet. “Why am I here?” she demanded, her voice shaky.

 _“Expelliarmus,”_ Black cast, ignoring her question.

Hermione reached for her wand, but it was too late. It sailed from her pocket into Black’s hand. He smirked and set it down on the nearest table, then approached her.

“I think you know very well why you are here,” he said.

She edged sideways, trying to position herself to make a run for the table that her wand rested on. “No, I really don’t,” she lied, stalling for time. “For that matter, why are _you_ here? Shouldn’t you be at the Ministry?”

Black grinned. “One of the privileges of being a high-ranking Ministry official is that I do not have to live in my office.” He flicked his wand at her. “And you _do_ know why you are here, Miss Green.”

Hermione’s heart pounded. “I know that there is a _stupid_ rumor circulating that I am a spy for Grindelwald. It’s not true. But if you wanted to question me, the proper procedure would be to take me to the Ministry, so no, I do not know why I am here.” She edged closer to the table.

Black looked darkly satisfied. “The problem, Miss Green, is that there are plenty of blood-traitors in the Ministry who might… go easy on you. And we have another difficulty.”

“I’ll take Veritaserum,” she offered, heart palpitating. “I’ll take it, and you will see—”

Black smiled. “Ah, but I have never been much good at Potions.”

“Then get some,” she exclaimed. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

He shook his head. “The Ministry closely monitors its own stock, and it’s surprisingly difficult for a Ministry Department Head to acquire certain substances, or items, for personal use. Too many questions would be raised, you see. Too much of a trail.” He bared his teeth. “However, there is another reason, which is precisely the difficulty I started to speak of. Have you ever seen someone talk under Veritaserum?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, but I’ve been told what it looks like.”

“Then you should know that it is a profoundly _dull_ thing to witness. Very simply, Miss Green, there is no fun at all in watching a person reveal information drably and without any sense of desperation. No satisfaction in that.”

Hermione jerked away to try to run for the table.

_“Crucio!”_

The Unforgivable Curse caught her. This was very different from the weak curse that Lestrange had used on her in the hallway that one time. Pollux Black knew exactly what he was doing. It was every bit as bad as his granddaughter’s curse would be fifty-three years later.

Waves of horrific pain shot over her body, like being stabbed repeatedly with red-hot needles. The pain bore into her skin, making her blood feel first hot and then horribly cold. Her muscles spasmed as the curse reached that layer of tissue, feeling like a thousand sprains at once.

Hermione was screaming in pain, closing her eyes involuntarily, but as soon as she did, they felt sealed shut with some sort of burning acidic glue, so she opened them painfully and gritted her teeth, trying to think of something, _anything,_ other than the pain.

It was so, so wrong that this was happening in Sirius’s house. _Harry’s_ house. A house that, in her memories, was a home base.

The Cruciatus Curse reached bone, and she screamed anew as the sensation of hundreds of fractures flooded her nerves. _“Stop!”_ she shouted.

Black lifted the curse, leaving her lying on the floor, aching from the aftermath. “Care to talk, then?” He pointed the wand at her. “If you were put up to it by ‘Cousin Albus,’ then I won’t do any more.”

For a moment it was tempting to just lie and tell Black what he wanted to hear and clearly already believed. Just tell him that yes, she had been passing information to Grindelwald because Dumbledore had wanted her to, and let the politicians sort it out later.

But she knew all too well that something much bigger than her personal well-being was at stake. She also knew that Black could not be counted on to keep a promise.

“I swear, I haven’t been spying,” she pleaded. “Please, just let me go.”

Black scowled. “It seems that you require more persuasion.” He raised his wand.

The curse started anew, and worse than before, since it was pain on top of previous pain. Hermione stopped resisting and finally just allowed her body to spasm and flop about from the nervous responses to the intense pain.

 _Tom will come here and rescue me,_ she thought, but instantly banished the idea. He might eventually figure out where she was, but it would be far too late. She had brought the Portkey here, so he could not use that. No one was going to rescue her. She had to save herself.

Black lifted the Cruciatus Curse again. “Had enough yet?”

Again Hermione was tempted to lie for a moment, but at this point, it was about personal pride and dignity as much as anything else. “I’m not a spy!” she exclaimed, tears pouring from her eyes.

Black frowned. “You _are_ a strong one. Stronger than I would be, I admit that freely. It’s admirable, in a way… but very inconvenient for you. You see, we cannot have traitors in this country.” He flicked his wand and nonverbally summoned something small and silver from across the room.

Her heart thudded. This could not be happening. “No… please don’t….”

Black grabbed her arm and forced the sleeve up. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat in dread. It was the other arm, not the one that Bellatrix Lestrange had carved the word _Mudblood_ into. That scar had finally mostly gone away with potions. But this was just too cruel to be real, that this would happen to her _again_ in a different time and a different world. Was this some depraved “tradition” of this branch of the Black family?

She shrieked as Black cut the letter T into her skin. _“Stop!”_ she cried.

“Talk.”

“I have _nothing to tell you!_ I am not a spy!”

Without blinking, Black carved the letter R. Blood was running out of the cuts, staining her clothing as it dripped from her arm. His grip on her arm would leave a bruise as well, and her circulation was getting cut off. She could barely feel her fingers anymore.

“Please, believe me!”

Black cut the letter A into her arm. Her arm was throbbing, burning with pain. That was not a normal knife. It was cursed. A normal cut, even a bad one, should not hurt this much.

Hermione felt a strange, lightheaded sensation. Was she blacking out? No, it did not feel like the onset of unconsciousness. Instead it felt like… like she felt before she cast a powerful spell, such as the Patronus Charm.

Black sliced a straight cut, leaving a slightly tilting letter I flowing red on her arm. The power continued to build—

Black had just moved his knife down her arm to continue his sadistic handiwork when the magic that had been building burst from Hermione’s right hand. A shockwave of raw, unrefined magical force blasted him, hurtling him across the room. He slammed into the wall and slid to the floor, unconscious. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Hermione was wobbly on her feet, winded from the power of the wandless curse and exhausted from the intense pain of the torture, but she knew what she had to do. She darted over to the table and retrieved her wand.

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest as she dashed from the room and down the hallway. _I have to get out of here. I know the way out. I know this house so very well. And if I run into anyone, I will kill them. I’ve done so before._ The grim resolution sustained her as she ran carefully down the stairs, dreading the sound of footfalls behind her if Black woke up.

She did not encounter anyone, and when she grabbed the doorknob, she was almost overcome. She briefly sagged, her knees buckling, as she clung to the knob. This was like a nightmare of being chased, except it was real, too real.

 _I don’t hear him. He is not behind me—yet. I have to get out now while I can._ She opened the door, stepped into the cold air, and hobbled on the front steps for a moment. Then she mustered her remaining strength. _Hogsmeade Village,_ she thought determinedly.

With a pop, she Apparated away.

* * *

Hermione appeared in a shaded clearing behind Honeydukes. Her maimed arm was bleeding all over, dripping on her clothes and staining the snow red. She took a deep breath and cast a healing spell at the wounds.

Nothing happened. Rivulets of blood continued to flow out.

She gritted her teeth. This was definitely cursed. She would just have to get back into the castle and have it seen about. She covered it up and slipped into the candy shop, heading for the cellar when no one was looking, to get into the secret passage to Hogwarts.

Eventually Hermione emerged from behind the statue. Her sleeve was completely soaked through with blood, and she was feeling faint again. Wobbling slightly on her feet, she headed down the corridor in the general direction of the Hospital Wing.

Halfway there, she ran into Tom. He stopped cold, and his lips parted in shock, horror—and fury.

He advanced on her. “Who the _hell_ did this to you?”

“Black. Portkey.” It was all she could manage.

It apparently told him enough, or perhaps he realized that she was in need of immediate help. Either way, he did not ask any further questions. He moved closer, placed an arm around her waist for support, and eased her into the nearest classroom.

“Let me see your arm,” he said.

Gingerly Hermione pushed up her sleeve, revealing an arm smeared from elbow to wrist with blood, and more continuing to flow out of the half-carved word. Tom sucked in his breath. His face grew white with anger. For a full half minute he could not even speak.

“Hermione,” he finally said, “this is a cursed wound.”

“I know. I tried to heal it.”

He breathed in and out, trying to focus and calm himself. “I am going to do something, and Hermione, listen, this is very important. It’s going to hurt, what I do. You _must_ accept the pain.”

She gazed up at him. “I don’t understand.”

“You have to… _welcome_ it. Not fight it, and not merely endure it and hope it goes away soon. It won’t work otherwise, and it will be very bad. Can you do that?”

“Healing?” she murmured. “Yes. It hurts sometimes. I see now.”

“This is a different kind of healing. Hermione, you have to welcome the pain.”

“I understand,” she repeated, her voice stronger.

That seemed to mollify him. He took a deep breath again and withdrew his wand. He pointed it as the ghastly wound and began to mutter under his breath.

Waves of burning, fiery pain covered Hermione’s arm. It was different from the Cruciatus Curse; this felt like her arm was actually on fire.

 _Welcome it. It is healing._ She gritted her teeth. _Heal. Fire cleanses,_ she thought.

The burning pain continued, and smoke actually began to rise from her arm. She caught a whiff of it and almost retched; it smelled acrid, chemical, and toxic.

The sensation suddenly lifted. Tom smiled, truly pleased, and cast another spell to remove the blood.

Hermione gasped. Her arm bore no signs of ever having been cut. No scar, no red lines of an incomplete healing. It was pristine.

She gazed up at him, eyes wide, mouth open. “What was that?”

He smirked. “That, Hermione, was a Dark healing spell.”

 _“Dark_ healing spell?”

“Yes. I cursed off the damage. My magic fought and defeated the magic embedded in that wound. That was what was burning, Black’s foul, toxic magic.” He paused. “If you had fought it, it would have made the wound much, much worse. You might have lost that part of your arm.”

Hermione stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Because I wasn’t sure if you would let me do it if I told you ahead of time what it was,” he said bluntly. “And traditional healing cannot do this. That is why Dark magic leaves scars behind. It’s almost always cast by a hostile person, so you _can’t_ accept it. Intent matters in Dark magic, and the caster’s intent was to harm, so you are harmed, even if it only ends up being a scar. It is why the Killing Curse is unblockable, too. That curse is only about causing death, nothing else. No pain. The caster doesn’t want the target to have a chance, and since Dark magic can be made much more powerful than the other kind, that overpowers the will to survive… unless, of course—but I digress.” He smirked. “Anyway, in this case, I cast the Dark healing spell, and my intent was to heal… but yours also was important, which is why you had to welcome the pain.”

Hermione’s head was spinning. Much that she had taken for granted was being overturned. She suddenly had a flashback to her sixth year Defense class, taught by Severus Snape. He had spoken of the Dark Arts in a similar way.

She stood up. Her legs were still wobbly, but she was surer on her feet than she had been before.

“Thank you, Tom.”

He put his arm around her waist once more. “You should get something to eat. And have some chocolate, I believe.”

They left the classroom and began to walk slowly down the hallway. He kept his arm around her waist.

“You said it was a Portkey that took you to Black. Pollux, I presume.”

She nodded. “Somebody’s book. Not mine; it was on my desk and I just wanted to move it.”

Tom growled. “That was clever,” he said grudgingly.

“It brought me to his house. Well, possibly Arcturus Black’s house.” She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped walking. “Tom, in my time, I _know_ that house. That house meant safety to me. It was awful to be there under these circumstances.”

He hugged her. “Obviously, he cast the _Portus_ charm on the book that night. That’s what he was doing. Very clever.” His wand twitched in his hand. “He will pay,” he added darkly. “He’ll wish the thought never crossed his mind. And anyone who knew about it will also pay. When break is over, I’ll have to make inquiries of your roommates, you realize.”

“Don’t torture them, Tom. Please. Legilimens them or give them Veritaserum. They may not have known he did it.”

He frowned for a second, but apparently considered that Hermione might have a good reason to make that request, because in the next moment, he gave a curt nod.


	12. Fidelius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something that has been building for several chapters finally happens! The fic earns its rating. :D There is a fairly important plot event as well, and finally, I would like to make a personal announcement. With this chapter, I hit 50,000 words in NaNoWriMo. :D Onward!

Tom brought Hermione to the boys’ dormitory afterward. She was feeling achy and tired from the muscle spasms of the Cruciatus Curse, and she needed to rest, however much her mind told her to investigate. She had to admit that she was also a little afraid to go back into her room. What if something else had been turned into a Portkey, or cursed? What if Pollux Black could somehow get into Hogwarts? Surely he wouldn’t have the authority to create Portkeys into the school, but he _was_ a Ministry Department Head.

Tom did not seem to want her to be in the room alone either. He pulled her onto his bed and let her curl against him to rest. It was pleasant to Hermione, a feeling of safety.

 _What does it say about me that proximity to—no, own the word, cuddling against Tom Riddle makes me feel safe?_ she wondered. _Though again… what does it say about him that he would allow it?_ The fact was that it was virtually impossible now for her to regard this Tom as Voldemort. There were disturbing indicators of a significant inner darkness, such as his death threats against anyone who harmed her and his inclination to curse his schoolmates, but compared to the evil that Voldemort had committed, it didn’t measure up. _And doesn’t everyone have darkness inside?_ she reasoned. She herself, after all, had resolved to kill if she had encountered anyone in her escape from Grimmauld Place, although it would not actually have been necessary to do more than stun.

As she rested against his side, he stared into space, his eyebrows creased. He was obviously thinking about what had happened and what should be done about it.

“Hermione,” he said abruptly, “I don’t mean to disturb you, but we need to think about several things.”

She looked up at him. “Such as?”

“I’ve tried to focus,” he explained. “There are a lot of aspects of this that will have to be addressed sometime, but for now I’ve had to consider which is the most important. Don’t mistake me, Hermione—Black will pay for what he did, and anyone else who was in on it will too. I am going to get to the bottom of it… but I may not be able to do that until your roommates return. I will try to break through the asinine hex that prevents boys from going into the girls’ dormitories, so I can investigate—but for now, I think justice has to rank lower on the list than something else.”

Hermione had a feeling that when he said “justice,” he meant “vengeance.” For once, she found it difficult to care that much, as long as he kept it to the actual perpetrators and did not risk his own prospects. But the word brought another idea to her head.

“What about telling the Minister about it?” she suggested. “I have memories—”

“Hermione, that will go nowhere and will only hurt us. Arcturus Black is one of the most prominent pureblood patriarchs in the wizarding world. The Minister is in a position of requiring the united support of the blood purists and Muggle-lovers, and for the moment, he has it. He won’t risk losing it. I don’t trust him.”

“Honestly, you don’t trust anyone.”

“I trust you.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, but his expression was actually sincere, to her surprise.

“I’m a Slytherin, in more than one way,” he continued. “I have no objection to the idea of political patronage and horse-trading, but only if one does not become weak and beholden. Strong politicians offer favors while maintaining clear authority, and Spencer-Moon only has that when it comes to the war. We don’t, unfortunately, have the clout to fight Arcturus’s influence—yet. It would make us look as if we were shoddily lying and scheming at best, possibly Confunded, or at worst, Black would counter with his accusation of espionage. And that would be a war matter. The Ministry is not gentle in its interrogation of suspected enemy combatants. That’s a law Weasley has already pushed through.”

This was bad. It reminded her of the escape of Sirius Black, engineered by Dumbledore because the Minister wouldn’t believe her and Harry.

“What about telling Dumbledore, then?” she said. “He would believe me, and he has a lot of power.”

Tom scoffed. “I don’t want Dumbledore involved. I don’t trust him either. I still think it’s very likely he set you up to bait Grindelwald. I just haven’t confirmed it. If that’s true, it would definitely backfire on us to involve him _or_ go to the Ministry.”

Hermione ignored the comment about “confirming it.” Tom was arrogant and thought he could do a lot of things, but doing Legilimency on Albus Dumbledore was not happening. Instead she replied, “Slughorn, then. We should tell _someone.”_

“Slughorn means well, but he can’t be trusted with information after he’s liquored up, and you know it as well as I do. You really should consider Obliviating that man of your own true history, Hermione. I have deep misgivings about it.”

Hermione was frustrated. “Tom, you’re rejecting everything I suggest. It’s not like you to say that there are no options available.”

“There are no options available _right now_ that involve pushing it on an authority figure,” Tom replied.

“So what do you propose, then, killing Black yourself?” she asked sarcastically.

He chuckled darkly. “He deserves it, and I’d be doing the wizarding world a favor. But _for the moment,_ Hermione, what matters the most is your personal safety. That’s what I was trying to talk about before we got on this tangent.”

She listened.

“You can’t stay in that room,” he said flatly.

She waited for him to say more, but he did not. Finally she responded. “I don’t feel safe in there, certainly, but where do you suggest that I sleep?”

“The Room of Requirement.”

 _“Oh,”_ she said, understanding dawning. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “That’s a great idea. But… people will wonder, won’t they? And they’ll try to find out—”

“I’m going to put some extra protection on it,” he said. “I think the Fidelius Charm will do what I need.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You can use that on a room in the castle?”

He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. People could still use the Room when you weren’t in it, but the way the charm works, no one should even be able to think about what the Room would require to reveal you. It should be very safe. I think I’ll need to make your roommates forget you’re supposed to be with them, maybe a good Confundus or Imperius… and you’ll need to spend a lot of time in the common room so people don’t get _too_ suspicious….”

Hermione winced as he spoke so matter-of-factly of using the Imperius Curse, but when the time came, she could talk him out of it. There were alternatives, after all.

“So you would be my Secret-Keeper,” she mused.

The world had definitely turned on its head.

* * *

Later, Hermione went back to her dorm room and gingerly entered. There appeared to be no other items out of place. They would examine her possessions in the Room of Requirement to be sure.

She shrank her school trunk, then levitated it, her laundry, and the items on her desk, including the shelf full of Dark Arts books that had really started her association with Tom. Her possessions flew through the air and entered her beaded bag, vanishing into its undetectable depths.

She gave the room a parting glance. It was not like her bedroom at her parents’ house in the 1990s, or even the girls’ dormitory in Gryffindor that she had lived in for six years, but for a few months it had been a sort of home. Then she turned away and walked out.

Tom was waiting in the seventh-floor corridor. _I need a safe, homelike place to stay,_ she muttered under her breath at first, so he could hear it. Two people asking would be more powerful than one. Hermione repeated the request until the door materialized. She opened it and gazed inside. Her jaw dropped.

The Room of Requirement was… perfect, really. Her bed was large, much larger than any she had ever slept in. It was sumptuous, with elegant carving and a small shelf for books built into the headboard. It was also—she noticed—draped in red, green, gold, and silver. She considered the significance of that before examining the rest of the room.

It was not overly large, because that would have been lonely and somewhat intimidating. The floor was covered in richly detailed carpets. A desk and a bookcase lined one wall. A small personal hearth crackled with fire along the opposite one. A coffee table and pair of squashy armchairs were shoved into a near corner. In a far corner stood an open door, indicating a clean bathroom within.

Hermione opened her beaded bag and sent objects out of it, levitating them into their appropriate places in this bedroom. The bookcase filled up quickly, and her school supplies covered the desk. There was no need to flaunt a collection of Dark books anymore, so she sent those into the same shelves as the rest of her books. Then she turned to Tom.

He was pleased. “Not bad at all,” he remarked, heading to the bookcase to examine— _really_ examine—what titles she owned.

 _I need no one else to be able to get in,_ Hermione thought. Nothing apparent happened, but she knew that the room would protect her location. Tom was going to make it foolproof.

He was smiling, and the smile had only a hint of his smirk in it. He drew out his wand.

“You’re going to cast it right _now?”_ she exclaimed.

“Why not? I know the theory perfectly.”

“Of course you do," she muttered.

“So do you,” he said. She did not deny it… and _there_ was the smirk. “And if we didn’t, I have no doubt that it is in one of those books.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a smile was playing at the corners of her lips.

* * *

Somewhat later, they were seated in the soft armchairs that the Room had produced. The spellcasting had gone off flawlessly, and Tom now held in his mind the magically encoded Secret _“Hermione Granger, also known as Hermione Green, resides in the Room of Requirement.”_

The Secret had to be absolutely true in every detail. They both knew that. The moment it became false, the charm would break. For that reason she had been insistent on using both her birth and her current surname, to be utterly sure. Tom had already heard her real name from her memories.

She reflected on the fact that he had taken charge of the matter and become her Secret-Keeper, rather than letting her be her own and share the Secret with him. It was a bit controlling, now that she thought about it, but this _was_ his idea, so she supposed she shouldn't let it bother her too much. He was not going to do a Pettigrew. It was weird and inexplicable in a way, but she trusted him. She knew what he would do to anyone who harmed her. He definitely would not turn her over to any of those same people, especially since he had apparently resolved not to adopt their views to gain power. Grindelwald might have been a potential problem, but it seemed that she would be protected from any possible spies he might have as well.

That reminded her of something she had meant to do.

“Tom,” she said abruptly, “I need to ask you something. You have said before that you think there might be a spy for Grindelwald in Hogwarts.”

He suddenly became very alert. “Yes?”

“Why, and who do you think it might be?”

He gazed at her, an unreadable expression on his face. He almost seemed to be performing Legilimency on her, but if so, it was only to read the thoughts at the surface of her consciousness. She did not feel any mental invasion.

“I—have never been sure of it,” he said haltingly. “The simplest explanation is that Grindelwald learned about the dates of Hogsmeade weekends as intelligence about when students might be vulnerable, and Dumbledore separated us that day to offer you as bait.”

“So is there any specific reason you think that there might be another person?”

Tom seemed to be coming to a decision about something. “My correspondence,” he said.

Hermione had not expected that. “Your private correspondence? With whom? And since when do you believe something on someone else’s say-so?”

“It’s not that simple,” he said. “It’s… a deduction. And as for who… you’re not going to like this, but I’ve wondered for a while about Lucretia Black.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t know,” he continued, his voice stronger and more confident, strangely. “It’s a bit odd how uninterested she is in her family’s politics, how seemingly separate from the family in some ways. But again, I can’t be sure. She may truly have no interest in it, wanting to mind her own business and stay out of it. I’d have to Legilimens her to find out for certain.”

Hermione gaped at him. “I—can’t believe that of her without actual evidence, not circumstantial.”

“I am not even sure if there is another information leak,” he repeated. “Dumbledore is the person to focus on.”

Hermione was knocked off balance. Everything about this felt strange. She really had not had any indication from Lucretia that she had any interest in politics. Of course, that would be the best kind of spy… but there was something else. Tom was acting odd about this. He seemed reluctant to put out Lucretia’s name as a possible spy. Why? He knew she wasn’t friends with Hermione, not really, and he had never hesitated to cast doubt on people’s motives before.

It was a puzzle, so Hermione focused on the known variable. “Tom, not long ago, Dumbledore took me aside and told me I might be a target. He said to ignore anything I might receive from Grindelwald’s agents.”

Tom scoffed. “So he called you to his office to lecture you about something you haven’t done, trying to morally shame you and make you feel bad over a thing that hasn’t even happened, but it’s perfectly all right for him to bait his traps with students. That hypocrite.”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” she muttered under her breath.

“I know Dumbledore,” he said with another scoff. “I know how he is. He won’t take his bum over to Germany when political people ask him to, because that might mean that he’s _ambitious,_ and we can’t have that. Oh no, he’ll do it only to save one of his students as his _duty_ as Deputy Headmaster, and Grindelwald just forced his hand. No selfish motives at _all.”_ Contempt was practically dripping from his words.

“Tom,” Hermione said quietly, “in my timeline, Dumbledore defeats Grindelwald next June.”

Tom looked horrified. His eyes widened, his mouth opened, and his face paled faintly.

“That’s awful,” he burst out. “That—that can’t be allowed to happen, Hermione.”

Hermione scowled at him. “You can’t be suggesting that Grindelwald needs to _win.”_

“I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. “He won’t win anyway. He’s losing as we speak. But it would be a disaster if Dumbledore defeated him. That’s when he gains a lot of political power, isn’t it? It can’t happen.”

Hermione sighed. She had all but come to that conclusion herself, but she did not know what the preferable alternative might be. She had not wanted to get involved in 1944’s politics in the first place, but increasingly she was being drawn into the arena.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore right now,” Tom said. “We have the advantage over others. You know how history will play out if certain things happen. It’s best to consider that and formulate a reasonable plan.” He paused and gave her a sudden hungry look. “I have other things I’d prefer to… discuss. I’ve just put you under the Fidelius Charm. You have a room of your own. I think that should be… observed.”

Hermione felt her pulse suddenly start to race. “Observed,” she repeated. “As in—marked.”

“Celebrated.” He said it in a low growl, dark eyes boring into her.

Her mind was suddenly far away from politics.

Tom got up from his chair and walked behind hers. He put his hands on the back of the chair, millimeters away from her shoulders. She felt the temperature of the air change slightly when he was behind her, and she could almost feel how close his fingers were.

“You know what I’d like, Hermione?”

 _I think I do,_ she thought. Her heart was thumping at the dawning realization that this probably would not end the way the—incident—in his dorm room had.

He leaned over. “I want to know even more of your secrets,” he hissed in her ear.

A jolt shot down her body. Shakily she stood up and turned around slowly to face him. His eyes were dark and dilated, and a smile spread across his face that was both desirous and almost predatory; yet the expression suited him. His school uniform was immaculate as usual, as was his hair. She wanted to change that.

He advanced on her and stood directly in front of her, looming, gazing down at her with a gleam in his dark eyes and that smirk on his face. Why had she never noticed how tall he was?

“What secrets would you care to know first?” she said.

“Let’s see….” he trailed off deliberately, looking her over from head to toe. “First, I want to know what you’re thinking right this moment.”

Hermione bit her lower lip in embarrassment. Tom’s smirk rose a bit higher at that. He lifted his right hand and slowly stroked her jawline with barely-there motion. “I can find out for myself, of course, if you prefer.”

“I was thinking that I like your hair tousled,” Hermione whispered, blushing.

“That’s all?”

“And that you’re very tall.”

“And?”

“And that face you make around me—”

His hand held her face firmly as his fingers slowly, inexorably reached toward her hair. “This one?” he said, making it perfectly.

“That one. It’s _you._ It’s precisely you.”

He uttered a low growl before violently grabbing her in his arms and lifting her up. She threw hers around his shoulders and threaded her fingers into his hair, instantly mussing it. His eyes gleamed in recognition, but only for a moment—their lips slammed together in an intense kiss, a fight for dominance. Previously he had taken quick control of affectionate moments, but this time was different. Teeth and tongues dueled. She stroked his scalp; he grabbed her hips. She tugged lightly on his hair; he slipped a hand under the waistbands of her skirt and knickers.

He was edging them closer to the luxurious bed, and she was fully aware of it. _What am I doing?_ she thought at one point. _Am I really going to give my first time to him of all people, in the wrong time, knowing who he—is? Was? Could become?_

 _Yes,_ she answered herself. _I’m going to._ Because there was no “right” time anymore except the current one. Because the time she had come from had been little but loss, grief, and heartbreaking disappointment. Because the present time and the person before her offered, in a darker and more adult way, that beautiful, priceless thing she had felt at age eleven when she learned she was a witch: _opportunity._ Because this was Tom, just Tom, and ever since they had begun to speak civilly, he had only wanted to keep her safe from harm—and he had the skills and motivation to do it. Because he wanted all of her, and it was definitely an intense, possessive, and somewhat dark desire, but it was utterly sincere.

And because she wanted him too.

The backs of her legs brushed against her new bed. He continued to push her back, and she fell onto the mattress. The Room of Requirement really had delivered: This was soft, but not too soft. Perfect.

He was on the mattress in the next instant, collapsing on top of her and continuing with his affections as if there had been no interruption.

“I thought of another secret I want to know,” he murmured against her ear. A hand brushed against her thigh, hiking up her skirt. “I want to know what you look like.”

He did not wait for a reply. As soon as the words were leaving his mouth, he had a hand on the zipper of her skirt, pulling the zip down. He left the garment in place, though, and instead went to work on her blouse buttons and school tie. She raised a hand to assist, but he took her wrist and guided it away with a shake of his head and that smirk.

“It would probably be faster to do this with magic, but… I like this,” he said, untying the knot and unthreading the tie.

Hermione looked wryly at him. “You couldn’t use magic. These clothes are charmed against that. Every student here would prank someone that way otherwise.”

He looked startled for a moment that she knew something he did not—or had forgot—but he instantly gave a dark laugh. “Well, it’s a good thing in any case.”

Her blouse was off. He lifted her off the mattress and unhooked her bra with a dexterity that surprised her.

“I thought you’d never done this before,” she commented.

“That doesn’t mean I’m a bumbling oaf who can’t do anything with… _precision,”_ he said pointedly, the final word almost hissed. A thrill coursed over her body at the meaning—and at his gaze, which was somehow even hungrier than it had been before. With a sudden motion, he reached for her skirt. He slipped his fingers into the waistband of her knickers and yanked both garments off her, leaving her completely exposed.

“You know,” he remarked suddenly, staring at her body, “I never understood what some of the boys were on about when they mentioned this. It always seemed… base… like a lack of self-respect or self-control. And for them I think it is… but _we_ are different. We’re special. _You’re_ special. You’re gorgeous, Hermione, and you’re _mine_ and I am going to _have_ you and—” He broke off, seemingly unable to finish, and gazed at her, eyes flitting over her.

Rationally, Hermione knew that this declaration should have been a mood-killer, but somehow it was not. The inauspicious beginning did not even register in her memories after the last unfinished, unspoken statement.

“I want to know a secret of yours too,” she said suddenly, her voice surprisingly low and husky.

“Oh?” he murmured.

“Yes. I want to know the same one you just discovered.” She reached for his tie, a smug look on her face to match his.

For a moment he looked taken aback at her daring, but his features settled into a look of pleasure and approval at once. She quickly removed the tie, vest, and shirt that he wore, exposing a nicely toned chest with a dusting of dark hair. Somehow she was not surprised by that.

When she reached for his belt, she did get a surprise. She had never felt an erection before. It was… unlike anything else. Warm, hard, at once desirable and intimidating. Her hands suddenly became fumbly. She felt her face flush as she struggled with his pants, very acutely aware that he was looking at her, arrogantly pleased with the effect this was having on her, but finally she got them open. As he had done, she slipped her thumbs into his underwear and removed everything at once.

 _How is that supposed to fit—_ Hermione could not even complete the thought. The intimidating aspect loomed large.

“I want to know another secret,” he said. His voice was almost a whisper.

“What?” Hers was too.

“I want to know what you’ll do when I—”

Hermione muffled a shriek as he descended upon her. His lips trailed a path down her neck, over her collarbone, and across each breast in turn. His left hand pinned her hip in place, and his right—

She thrashed with delight as he slipped one, two, then three fingers inside her. He spread them, stretching her, and slid them in and out slowly, making her moan and arch her back. He lifted his head up, met her eyes, and smirked insolently. “Hermione,” he said, “as positively thrilling as it is to watch you and know that it’s because of _me,_ that no one has ever made you do this before… I can’t wait much longer… so…” He planted a final kiss on her chest and withdrew his fingers, trailing them up her pelvis as he positioned himself.

 _It’s going to hurt,_ she thought. _There’s no way around that. It’s all right, though. It’ll be all right._

She felt the tip of him at her core. Instinctively she brought a hand there to help guide him to her entrance. He moaned at the touch. “I’ve got to—God this is good, I have to—”

He pushed forward.

At first there was a surge of pain, a steady throb and a sense of being stretched to the utter limit. He started to move at once, but she grabbed his shoulders to hold him in place. “Stop it,” she got out between clenched teeth. “Hurts.”

He gave her a desperate look, which she had never before seen on his face. “I’m sorry, I can’t—” He broke off. “Of course.” He shifted without withdrawing, stretching her even more and making her almost shout from it, but he found his wand in his discarded clothes, which lay in a heap with hers on the enormous bed. He cast a nonverbal spell, and instantly, the pain vanished.

“Oh that’s better,” she said. It really was. Magic was brilliant. Involuntarily she spread her legs wider, allowing herself to take more of him in. He smirked and thrust forward immediately, completely filling her.

 _“Mine,”_ he murmured as his entire length was inside her.

She shut her eyes in bliss at the word; it was so _wonderful_ to be _wanted_ like this so completely. She didn’t want to give it up. She wanted, in this moment, to keep him, whatever might happen. _“Mine,”_ she replied in a lower voice.

His eyes widened and fixed upon her. She realized in an instant that this was probably the first time he had ever been wanted— _claimed_ —by someone who genuinely cared about him.

As if in reaction, he began moving fast and jerkily, his face set in that desperate visage again. Very quickly the delicious mounting pressure inside her began to build, rapidly approaching a pinnacle. She could tell that this was going to conclude soon. He gripped her hips hard enough that it would probably leave a mark, but she felt no pain.

The pressure in her—and him too, from the desperation in his movements—was building to a crest. Then, abruptly, he pushed forward, and the wave broke and pleasure poured over her body, feeling somehow as if it touched every cell.

She grabbed at him uncontrollably, fingers clutching at his shoulder blades, his sides, edging toward his waist, to dissipate the release. He clenched his face, closing his eyes, and she felt him release in her.

 _“Mine,”_ he repeated almost inaudibly. He collapsed bonelessly on top of her.

They breathed heavily, chests heaving in synchronization, for a while. He planted an idle kiss on her mouth, and her arms found their way around his back.

“So I had a thought,” he finally said.

“Did you now.”

“Yes. I see no reason to sleep in the boys’ dormitory tonight, what with it being empty. I’m going to spend the night in here. And as many days during the holiday break as possible.” It was not a request.

“You want to fall asleep and wake up with me?” she teased.

“Among other things. I think we should practice a lot, wouldn’t you agree?”

She blushed again and looked away, but that was all the answer he required.


	13. Making Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot happening in this chapter, and I hope it doesn't feel too disjointed and episodic, but I wanted to avoid long and drawn-out filler. Also, more smut! This is the BDSM variety, which I am pretty well convinced Tom would be into if he were canonically a sexual being, so if that’s not your thing, you can skip the section. It’s second to last and marked with divider lines, as usual in this fic. It may warrant an increase of rating, too, though this website does not clearly define Mature and Explicit. Anyway. Enjoy.

_Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

“How could you be such a fool?” Arcturus Black demanded, scowling fiercely at his cousin.

Pollux Black rubbed the back of his head. A bruise was still present from where the girl’s wandless magic had slammed him into his own wall.

“Well?” Arcturus continued. “What do you have to say? It was a foolish enough idea in the first place. You have always been too impatient. We _have_ a plan, Pollux.”

Pollux nodded, looking down. “It just struck me as better to do an interrogation. More accurate.”

“No, you like inflicting pain for the fun of it,” Arcturus said with profound disdain. “But you still shouldn’t have acted without reinforcement. Naturally I would not involve myself in something like that, but why didn’t you bring Malfoy? Or Lestrange, or even Rosier?” he continued, gesturing in turn to the three other wizards present in the room. “She would have been prevented from escaping if someone else had been in the room.”

Pollux looked up sharply. “With all due respect, I am not sure that she would have. It was very powerful wandless magic, and Dark at that. Imprecise, basically just raw force, but wandless curses usually are. It might have blasted anyone who was in the room.”

“Then someone should have been there to take away her wand and stand guard by the door!” Abraxas Malfoy exclaimed. “Pollux, this is a piece of carelessness that could be fatal.”

“Yes,” Pierre Lestrange agreed. “If she were to inform Dumbledore of it—”

Arcturus set his cigarette down on the ashtray. “Dumbledore’s involvement would be to their disadvantage. He is fortunate that his friendship with Grindelwald is not well known. Were it to be exposed, the people would draw the obvious conclusion, and it would cast doubt upon such an extreme claim as a Ministry Department Head using an Unforgivable Curse to interrogate.”

“Still, it is a bad thing that she got away,” Malfoy said. “She has a memory of the event, and it is evidence that would be difficult to explain away if it did come to light.”

“Memories can be tampered with,” Lestrange said dismissively. “You could say that obviously Grindelwald did such a thing to frame him.”

The fifth wizard, Crawford Rosier, looked uncertain. “Pollux, your account of the event is… somewhat disturbing,” he said. “She resisted very well. I hate to suggest this, but is it possible that we have the wrong person?”

Four disapproving stares instantly met his eyes.

“It’s always _possible,”_ Arcturus conceded, “but unlikely. There is definitely an information leak to Grindelwald’s organization about our faction. We are in agreement on that. He knows too much about us. Even though he is losing on the battlefront, he still had Malenfant and Gaspard assassinated last week!”

Lestrange looked especially glum. His cousins in France had been patrons of both individuals, members of the advisory board of Beauxbatons Academy who had been secretly planning to introduce a proposal to ban Muggle-born admissions.

“The most suspicious character is definitely the girl,” said Malfoy. “She appeared out of nowhere to take her seventh year. Has anyone found out anything about her family?”

“There are records of the Squib uncle and aunt—the girl’s grandparents—having a non-magical daughter, Squib or Muggle, whatever you choose to call freaks like that,” Arcturus said, “and a marriage to a definite Muggle.”

Everyone in the room made a grimace of disgust.

“The thing is, the records I found also indicate that none of these people are alive anymore. The Muggle father was killed in their war, and the mother in the bombings. Why hasn’t the girl mentioned that? How is she so magically competent—the children tell me she is top of the class, tied with the Head Boy! The story is that she was privately tutored.”

Four faces turned to Arcturus, their attention riveted. Every one of them had apparently come to the same conclusion.

“Yes,” Arcturus said with smug satisfaction. “I do think that Hermione Green was ‘tutored’ by Grindelwald himself all these years, and that is why no one has ever heard of her. And I think it is time that we take care of the situation— _intelligently,”_ he added, looking pointedly at Pollux. “We have a plan, and I suggest that you hold to it from now on.”

* * *

_Hogwarts._

Tom made good on his promise.

Over holiday break, he spent the night in Hermione’s room every single night. Since Slytherin was the house of associations, he and Hermione were the only ones not to have someone to visit. Tom had, in the past few years, managed invitations to the homes of some or other of his pack, but as he confided to Hermione, he didn’t like it. The families of his schoolmates had been much cooler to him than their children, regarding him with only patronizing interest at best.

It was vastly preferable, he declared, to stay at Hogwarts and learn something new with Hermione.

For her part, Hermione did not allow doubts to intrude on her enjoyment of his company after that first time. After their second time, she had had a sudden, unwanted thought of pregnancy, but there was a potion recipe to prevent that, and it wasn’t that hard to make. Tom had been strangely impassive when she made the potion, and Hermione had wondered about that. Surely he wasn’t displeased.

 _He’s a few days away from eighteen,_ she thought. _And I’m almost nineteen._ She had figured out that her “new” birthday, the day that was a year since her last one in 1997, would be in January 1945. _We’re both too young for that, and I never read that Voldemort_ or _Tom Riddle ever had the slightest interest in having a kid._ —Then again, she supposed, she had also never heard that the “original” Tom, in the unaltered timeline, had ever been interested in a relationship with another person. Nevertheless, it didn’t matter. They were in _school,_ after all. Even if he did like the idea on some level, he clearly understood that it was a terrible one, since he did not try to argue her out of making the potion.

What about after? If she stayed in this time, did that imply staying with Tom specifically? He was responsible for his own choices, but sometimes people did need help making better ones. It would hurt now, really hurt, if she lost him to his own darkness after all. Hermione did not countenance failure very well. Rationally she knew that most adolescent and early adulthood relationships did not last… but a voice nagged at her that Tom was not exactly a typical teenage boy. What if he _didn’t_ grow bored with her? He might not, after all. He did everything he enjoyed with obsessive intensity. She was invested in him, but was it enough for that? She was not ready to face that question.

Still, the process of separating Tom of the 1940s from Voldemort of the 1990s was complete. She could honestly say that _Tom_ had never hurt her. Even when they were unfriendly, he had only expressed a suspicious, hostile interest in her—understandable, all things considered. As soon as he learned her secret, he had been inclined to protect her—at first, she acknowledged, because she had useful information, but later on, he had actually come to care about her for her own sake. His protectiveness was ferocious now. The defining moment was probably when Grindelwald had ordered her kidnapped. Tom had been very upset and concerned when she reappeared in the village. Since then, they had progressed from friendship to attraction to _this._

_Tangling limbs together and clutching at each other as we pant, gasp, move together, then his hands and strong arms grabbing my wrists and—_

Hermione, daydreaming on Christmas Eve as she sat in one of the Room’s armchairs, blushed at that memory. The previous night, he had tried that, taking her wrists and holding them above her head. It had been a bit intimidating to trust him to do that, but at the same time, very, very thrilling, and somehow it had made things much more pleasurable even than they usually were.

She realized that, for the first time since she had traveled back in time, she was actually happy. Having this intimate relationship—with Tom Riddle, of all people—made her happy, whereas before, she had alternated between terror of the situation and melancholy about what she had left behind.

She had learned that his birthday was December 31, and it was difficult to think of two gifts to be given to someone in the space of a week, but she had managed it. She was rather looking forward to seeing his face when he opened them.

* * *

After a very well-spent Christmas morning, they stumbled out of bed and got dressed. Hermione headed into the nice bathroom the Room of Requirement had produced, so she did not see him taking out a small book bound in navy blue leather and lifting a _very_ recent memory out of his head to deposit into it. He grinned smugly at the memory and put the book back into his rucksack, pulling out another item just as she emerged with his gift.

They stared at each other and the packages they held in hand. It was completely obvious what type of item both gifts were. Hermione stifled a laugh as she passed her boxy package to Tom and received a similar-shaped one from him.

Tom unwrapped his package to uncover _A Guide to Medieval Sorcery._ He smirked in pleasure as Hermione worked on her package. “We had a very similar theme this Christmas, you’ll see,” he noted.

Hermione’s eyes popped in alarm as she set eyes upon her gift, _Dark Arts in the Dark Ages: In Search of the Necronomicon and Other Fabled Tomes._

“It’s actually history,” Tom remarked as she gingerly opened the book. He was already devouring his own book’s table of contents. “There are several schools of magic, pre-Founders, that we know nothing about anymore. It’s unknown if they ever existed in the first place or are myths that emerged through time.”

Hermione could see now that he was telling the truth, and it was just a history book. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “It was hard to find anything like this where—when—I came from.”

“I’m sure it was, if _Dumbledore’s_ crowd ran things,” he said sourly.

* * *

Six days later, the scene partially repeated itself as Tom opened his birthday gift privately in the Room of Requirement. Hermione was especially pleased with this one. It was a gift he should have received last year, since he had come of age as a wizard, but he had not had anyone to give it to him—at least, no one from whom he could have accepted it with any measure of dignity. There were no “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley” for him, no friend’s parents who held genuine affection for him.

It was also a very appropriate gift from her symbolically.

This time it was Tom whose eyes widened in surprise. He lifted a gleaming gold pocket watch from a velvet-lined box. In addition to the usual clock face, it told the phase of the moon and zodiac sign. He picked up the enclosed note.

_Belated , but not too late._

_-Hermione._

He suddenly realized she was not just talking about the watch. He set it down in its protective case and turned to her with dark eyes. “Come here,” he growled. He did not wait for her to respond, but reached—almost lunged—for her immediately.

Half an hour later, he put his vest back on and proudly attached the watch.

* * *

The rest of break passed idyllically. It was—odd. Hermione thought, as the start of the new term approached, that it felt almost ominous. The sincere pleasures of Christmas, Tom’s birthday, and consummating their relationship—repeatedly—had almost pushed from her mind the dark events that had started the break. Almost, but not quite, and those memories were working their way back to the forefront of her mind. She had a nasty suspicion that the intrigue and danger would begin anew as soon as the school train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, if not sooner.

He seemed to be thinking the same thing. “I suppose I’d better get ready to interrogate your old roommates,” he muttered the night before the students would return.

Hermione looked up. Yes, the unease had reasserted itself, all right. She rather missed the pleasant interlude of the holidays.

“I have to repeat what I asked of you after it happened,” she said. “Don’t torture them.” She put a hand up to forestall his objection. “When Black had me under the Cruciatus Curse, I considered lying to him—twice—to tell him what he wanted to hear, just to make the pain stop.”

Tom’s eyes widened.

“So if you really want to know the truth, that is not the method to use.”

He gazed at her for several moments, considering what she said, before nodding. “I’ll need to swipe some Veritaserum from Slughorn’s office, then,” he said.

“What about Legilimency?”

“I only mastered it recently. I’d rather have the potion if necessary.”

“Let me go with you.”

He did not object, so they Disillusioned themselves as they left the Room of Requirement and began the long trek down the stairways.

Slughorn was in his own quarters already, and Tom made short work of the locking charm. Once inside, he went to the storage shelves and began to read over the labels, some of which were very faded. A large bottle of clear potion caught his eye. He withdrew three small single-dose flasks from his robe pocket and levitated the bottle off the shelf.

Something else on the shelves drew his attention as he filled the flasks. “Hermione, I thought I heard something. Could you check?” he whispered. He could not see her, but he felt the breeze shift around him as she left the office. Good. Now he could get the other potion he wanted. He did not want to have to explain this one to her—at least, not yet.

She returned to the dark office just as he was corking that fourth flask.

“Tom, what’s that? Is that poison?”

He pocketed the flask. “No. It’s something for me, in fact.”

Although he could not see her eyes, he could tell that she was skeptical. However, she did not pursue arguments with him when she knew she would not gain her point. It was one of the many ways she had changed over the past year.

And after all, if he got what he wanted from this potion, he _would_ tell her.

* * *

Hermione did not want to be present for Tom’s interrogation. She hoped that her appeal to pragmatism would deter him from using torture, and was in fact reasonably sure that it would, but she still did not want to witness it. Harry had described what it was like to watch someone talk under Veritaserum and it was not something she had any desire to see.

She stayed in the Slytherin common room, reading her new book, as he did… whatever he was doing. It was necessary now to spend time in the common room so that the other housemates did not become too suspicious of her absences. Tom would Confund the roommates when he was through with them, but keeping up appearances was always for the best.

At last the three girls emerged into the common room, looking none the worse for wear. They passed Hermione without any recognition. Evidently Tom had already put the spell on them. A minute or two later, Tom himself entered the common room.

“Let’s _talk.”_

She got up and followed him up the many flights of stairs into the Room of Requirement. It was certainly good exercise, she thought wryly. He strode over to the luxurious and by now very familiar bed and sat down with her.

“Well?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

He sighed. “None of them knew.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up high on her forehead. _“None_ of them?”

“Black apparently just visited them that night, using his familial—or future in-law—relationship with them as cover for what he really wanted to do. I would guess it was his own daughter’s book that he used. There were indications that Walburga had had something Obliviated, and it was probably that.”

Hermione frowned. “You said before break that Lestrange and Rosier were dealing with Black. He wouldn’t involve the girls?”

Tom shook his head. “It’s not that surprising after all. Families like that don’t generally want to involve their daughters in sordid business.”

“What about your theory about Lucretia?”

“She’s not a spy,” he said. “She is not involved with any of this in the least. She is counting the days till the end of school so that she can have her wedding and get out of that house. She actually _likes_ that Prewett fellow. I found him an insufferable prat in school… but no matter. The other two girls, Pollux Black did use for information about your habits and interests—that’s how he knew to use a book, I’m sure—but he didn’t tell them about this specific plot.”

Hermione felt vaguely relieved. It still would not be safe to go back to the room; Black could easily owl the girls with other Portkeys (or worse), but it was good to know that at least her former roommates had not been party to her kidnapping and torture.

“Tom, that’s… good… but I’m still worried. I doubt any of this is over.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” he agreed. “But I’ve got the situation in hand now. You are safe in this room and with me, and I know who needs to be monitored.”

“What about long-term? I don’t want to hide from them forever.”

“I’m working on that,” he said with a grin.

* * *

Tom did not leave the room that night. He sat in his usual armchair, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, reading his new book and occasionally glancing at Hermione.

Finally he set the book down and breathed heavily. Hermione recognized that sound by now. She bookmarked her place and put her own book on the table. He was gazing at her predatorily, and she could not help but notice the bulging condition of his trousers.

“Tom, you are insatiable,” she sighed.

“I certainly can’t have enough of you,” he agreed. “Tell me something. How much do you trust me?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

He got up from the chair and stalked over to her. “I was thinking of that time that I held down your wrists. I think… I want to do more.” He met her eyes and leered. “I want to tie them up.”

Hermione stared back at him. She had heard of such things, but it was the sort of thing spoken of in giggly, shocked whispers. Sex itself had been naughty enough to talk about when she was last at school; kinky sexual fetishes were definitely forbidden territory. However… she felt older than her years, certainly not like a silly schoolgirl, and that Tom would want to do this somehow did not surprise her.

“Is that all you want to do?” she asked carefully.

He smirked. “Well, obviously not… but I assume you’re not asking if I want”—he paused for a fraction of a second, quickly deliberating something—“to fuck you raw.”

Her jaw dropped, and her face flushed with heat. “What has got _into_ you?” she exclaimed, feeling the color in her cheeks. Tom occasionally used the milder swear words, but she had only heard him say that one once, and not in its original context.

He raised an eyebrow and smiled insouciantly. “It isn’t that I haven’t enjoyed our intimacies so far,” he said. “I have, very much. But that time got into my mind, and I’ve imagined… going rather farther. I want to try it.”

Hermione realized that, although he was not doing so overtly—his pride and Slytherin indirectness would not let him actually make the verbal request of her—he _was_ seeking her permission, and she _could_ refuse if the idea repulsed her.

“All right,” she said hesitantly. “You have to stop if I don’t like something, though.”

“Of course,” he said at once. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 _He means that,_ she thought. “Then… I don’t know what you want me to—” she began to say.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her up. “Just do what comes naturally to you… while you can,” he added in a hiss, smirking.

They moved toward the large bed, Tom steering her. He really did like being in control, she thought, as he laid her down on the mattress and climbed atop it himself. The pillows on this bed were just as large and luxurious as everything else about it. Hermione was able to sit almost upright while leaning against them.

Tom stared at her for a moment before lunging. “Get your clothes off,” he growled, centimeters from her face, though it was unclear whether it was an order to her or a verbal statement to himself. Probably some of both. He began undoing her tie and blouse. She kicked off her flats and started working on her skirt and tights. Before long she was naked of everything except her undergarments.

“Leave those on for now,” Tom murmured, removing her bra. _“I_ want to take them off.”

 _Of course you do,_ she thought.

He tossed her bra aside and grabbed her wrists. He relished holding them for a second, breathing deeply in satisfaction, before pulling them above her head with one hand. He reached for his wand with the other.

Hermione had, for some reason, expected him to use his tie—though on second thought, it was not that surprising that he would use magic. He cast the Incarcerous spell nonverbally, and a length of rope wound around her wrists and one of the ornate bedposts.

“Are you disappointed?” he asked, leaning over her.

“No, I just expected you would use your tie,” she said sheepishly.

His eyes gleamed, and he smirked. “You’d like that, would you? I think I know what to do with it.”

With deliberation he untied and threaded the green-and-silver necktie from around his shirt collar. He held it in hand for a moment, gazing at her. “You said you trust me,” he said.

She suddenly realized what he was going to do. Her heart started to thump. “I—yes, do it.”

His pupils were dark and wide with desire. She breathed deeply, taking in that look, before he descended on her with the tie in hand and covered her eyes with it. He tilted her head forward and tied it in the back, loose enough not to hurt, but tight enough not to slip. Her field of vision was blocked. She couldn’t know what he was going to do until he did it—and the uncertainty excited her.

She did feel the mattress shift and hear the soft rustling as he removed his clothes. He was not touching her at all as he did, and she knew that was deliberate. He would want her to anticipate his return—and she was.

She felt the warmth of his body a fraction of a second before he was upon her, but that was only just enough warning for her to prepare for the tingly thrill of contact. Then she felt his lips—and teeth!—against her neck, kissing and nipping up the soft skin. A hand ran over her right hip, fingers slipping under the band of her underwear and then immediately withdrawing, as if to remind her of what he _could_ do but—for now—was choosing not to.

He reached her left earlobe. A kiss, a gentle flitting of his tongue, and then he bit.

It hurt, but it didn’t. Hermione shrieked with surprise and a new, inexplicable mix of pain and pleasure. She heard—and felt—him chuckle darkly before running his tongue over the shell of her ear and nipping again, a bit harder. She sucked in her breath, trying not to thrash against the mattress. He chuckled again—and then pulled away.

“Since you can’t see it, I want you to feel something,” he said.

She nodded.

He surged against her still-covered center. “That’s for you,” he growled. “Every bit. And you know what I’m going to do with it?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” she growled back.

He ground against her harder, clearly turned on even more by her tone of voice. “I believe I told you earlier. Do you want to hear it again?”

_“Yes.”_

_Smack!_ His palm connected with her left thigh. She gasped in surprise.

“Naughty,” he hissed. “You _do_ like this.” He probed over the surface of her underwear with one hand. “You’re soaked.” He sounded impressed.

“Just _say it—”_

“I’m going to rip these knickers off and _fuck you raw,”_ he hissed.

Hermione shivered with pleasure at the words—and then felt his fingers slide under the waistband and tug. The underwear turned inside out as he yanked it off and down her legs. He tossed it somewhere and instantly pushed into her, hard.

She had not felt any pain during this since the first minute of their first time, before he had cast a healing spell. Over the holiday break they had learned about how to draw it out for longer as well, to make it last. This time, though, he was not taking things slowly.   He was moving so aggressively that it was… _consuming,_ she thought. It was an all-consuming friction. It actually did feel raw… but pleasurably. _Very_ pleasurably.

He brought his right hand down to her center and started to roll his fingers over her clit, flicking and touching, while gripping her hip very tightly with his left. “Hermione,” he moaned.

She strained against the ropes that still held her hands to the bedpost. She had dissipated some of her release by gripping his back and grabbing handfuls of his hair, but that was not going to be an option this time. That meant—

He thrust forward as far as he could go, pressing her clit hard. That was it. She screamed as the full intensity of the climax rushed from her center and over her body in waves, pulling against the confines so hard it would probably leave marks, and kicking her legs. He grabbed both of them and held them down on the bed, panting above her from his own release.

He relaxed on top of her, still breathing heavily. As soon as it occurred to him, he removed the blindfold. He fumbled for his wand and ended the spell that bound her arms to the bedpost, vanishing the ropes. She brought them back down and was not surprised at all to see red strain marks on them. They would fade soon enough, though. There was no bruising.

“I don’t suppose I need to ask if you enjoyed that as much as you hoped,” she teased.

He smirked.

* * *

They stayed in bed for some time after that, summoning their books across the Room of Requirement and reading, almost sharing a pillow because they were so large. Tom, however, seemed to drift at one point. Hermione noticed that he did not turn the page to his book after several minutes, which was unusual for him. They were both fast readers.

He noticed that she was looking, closed the book, and levitated it onto her nightstand. She bookmarked her own and set it down, aware that he apparently wanted to talk.

She was correct. “Hermione,” he began, “you’re not going to like what I have to tell you, but I’ve made up my mind about something.”

“I can’t imagine I’ll dislike it _that_ much.” She smiled. “Go ahead.”

“Well… it’s just this. I’ve considered what you’ve told me. And it seems that a lot of it is traceable back to Dumbledore winning the duel with Grindelwald this year.” He hesitated, considering how to word it. “It makes him the British wizarding world’s bloody hero, but he uses that prestige to slant and suppress information, and to get buffoons like Weasley placed in office to promote awful legislation that just riles up the blood-purity people… and I guess I, the other I, was too loony by then not to get caught up in it again.”

“I… guess so,” she said quietly. It was still tough to admit that the terrible state of the wizarding world in her original time had been to any degree Dumbledore’s fault, but it seemed that it was. He had been friends with Bathilda Bagshot, the historian who had written that utter whitewashing known as _A History of Magic,_ whose work patronized Muggles to a truly offensive—and dangerous—degree, and who had gone on to rewrite the truth of what her great-nephew Grindelwald had been up to. It was a difficult thing to admit even now, but Hermione finally had to face the fact that the tolerant faction’s infantilizing of Muggles had fed the blood purists’ belief that they were little more than animals.

“And there’s something else,” Tom continued. “Grindelwald has the Elder Wand. If Dumbledore defeats him, _he’ll_ get it.”

Hermione stared at him in undisguised shock. “How do you know that? In my time, the other you didn’t take an interest in that wand until the last year of his life and had to track it down starting with Gregorovitch. Grindelwald hasn’t exactly been boasting of it, either.”

Tom paused for a second. “The timeline has obviously changed, Hermione, so what ‘he’ did in your time is irrelevant now. And as for how I know… well, I just know. I mean—Grindelwald’s mark is the sign of the Deathly Hallows. He has it, and you’ve just confirmed that he has it.”

A terrible suspicion dawned in Hermione’s mind. “Tom, are you planning to challenge Grindelwald for the Elder Wand?”

Tom smirked. “Of course. Dumbledore can’t be allowed to defeat him, Hermione. The wizarding world will go to hell if he does. Your timeline proves that. _I_ need to defeat him and get that wand. It will give me enough clout that I won’t have to attach myself to the obsolete ideology of anyone currently in power. I will have power of my own from being the ‘hero’ of the British wizarding world. I won’t have to pretend to agree with their views until I lose myself and actually _do_ agree once more. I can have things my own way.”

Hermione sat upright and stared at him in horror. “Tom, it’s the _Elder Wand!_ Grindelwald is a dangerous Dark wizard, and he has the power of the unbeatable wand! This—Tom, this is a _Gryffindor_ idea, in a _bad_ way, challenging Grindelwald now! You’re eighteen years old. You’re brilliant and magically powerful, yes, but you’re eighteen.”

Tom’s face changed. It hardened, but there was also a note of pride in it. “Hermione, you should never forget that I am a dangerous Dark wizard too. No”—he held up a hand as she began to protest—“I am, and you need to accept that. I won’t…” He hesitated once more. “I won’t let it destroy me this time, but the Dark Arts can be very useful.”

“Tom—”

“You have to fight fire with fire, Hermione. Remember the Dark healing. I will not lose to Grindelwald, and I’m saying that for _Slytherin_ reasons. I have a plan, and it will work. I will get the Elder Wand, and I will use his defeat to launch a bid for power, and I won’t be beholden to _any_ of these troglodytes to do it.”

Hermione gazed at him wearily. “Tom… I know better than to think I can force you to do, or not do, anything… but take care.”

“I will. I know what I’m doing.”


	14. A Conspiracy Exposed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turns up the "ominous" dial to 11. And this is the final warning for anyone who doesn't want to read a dark and ruthless Tom.

Tom did not speak of his plan again, and he did not want to discuss it when Hermione privately brought it up the next day.

“There are things it’s better that you don’t know in advance,” he said, gazing down at her.

She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t condescend to me. I’m not going to turn you in and you should know that. I just don’t want you to do something unnecessarily risky, which Dark magic inherently is.”

“Hermione, exactly how do you suggest that I could beat the Elder Wand without using Dark magic? Perhaps catch Grindelwald while he’s in the W.C. and steal it from him?”

“That’s practically what Grindelwald did himself to get it,” she muttered.

Tom raised an eyebrow at her. “Really? That’s hilarious. He never—” He broke off. “So you don’t even have to kill the previous owner.”

“Absolutely not,” she said eagerly, jumping at the chance to dissuade him from killing. “In the other timeline, Dumbledore dueled him for it and left him alive. And I’m sure he didn’t use the Dark Arts.”

Tom’s face closed down. “As you pointed out yourself, I am eighteen years old. As much as I dislike Dumbledore, I’m not such a fool as to disparage the ability of someone on that account. He is a very experienced wizard with Light magic. But I have to use Dark. If I don’t, he’ll get the wand this time too. I don’t have _time_ to learn all his tricks before making my stand, and I intend to change the rules anyway.” At that, he bent down and kissed Hermione lightly on top of her head. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”

She recognized that the discussion was at an end, but she still felt uneasy. Tom could _die._ He could actually die doing this. That would change the timeline, all right, but his death was no longer an acceptable way for that to happen.

They headed to the Great Hall for breakfast, his arm possessively around her waist, reminding anyone who cared to look that they were toge—

 _No,_ she thought as they entered through the doors, _that he regards me as his._ It was impossible to avoid that conclusion about their relationship. She could not decide if he meant the possessive as most people did, to refer to monogamy and special emotional closeness, or if he meant something… else. He _did_ like to claim things for his own. It was an unpleasant consideration, and one about which she did not want to dwell too deeply.

 _He cares about me. That’s what matters. He respects me and cares about me._ She told herself that in her mind over and over.

* * *

During breakfast and morning classes, Tom kept a very close eye on Rosier and Lestrange. Hermione remembered that he had known they were involved with the Black faction, so it made sense to watch them, especially since he also knew that the girls were not knowingly or directly involved.

 _I really wish he would tell me more of what’s going on,_ she thought in Transfiguration. _Grindelwald’s plans, Black’s plans, who’s an agent for whom, is there even an agent, what is he himself really up to with his private owl post and whatever else he does—he’s trying to protect me and I get that, but I can protect myself pretty well. I just need to know more than he is telling me._

How to ask, though? Tom was not the sort of person she could wheedle information from, and she had never been particularly good at that anyway. She stifled a blush over the memory of her feeble attempt to quiz Borgin about Draco Malfoy’s doings just before sixth year. No, after what the war year did to her, she could pass for a Slytherin, but not the subtle kind. Directness was her forte, and that was what she would have to use, somehow, to get Tom to open up.

At the end of class, Dumbledore caught her as she made to exit the classroom. Tom kept walking toward the threshold before realizing that she was not there. He stopped and hovered, watching the professor warily.

“Miss Green, if you would come by my office at four?”

“Of course,” she said at once. Her pulse thudded. _Now_ what?

Outside the classroom, Tom was fuming. “What does he want?” he snapped.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Don’t take it out on me,” she said. “I have no idea what he wants. I hope he isn’t going to ask about my living situation. He shouldn’t even know. You made them think I had just moved to a different room in the dormitories. I haven’t been asked by Slughorn, though, so it doesn’t make sense for Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore sticks his crooked nose in everything that isn’t his business,” Tom said venomously. “But no, if it’s _that,_ you’re safe. You _can’t_ tell him. That, incidentally, is why I didn’t want you to Keep your own Secret—so you _couldn’t_ reveal it if anyone asked.”

_Oh._

“Do tell me what he wants afterward,” Tom continued.

“Tom, you know I will, but when are _you_ going to start telling _me_ things? A lot is going on that I just don’t know about, and most of it involves me.”

He stopped cold. A brief moment of anger surged over his countenance, followed immediately by a look of guilt. “I—you know, Hermione, you have a point,” he said. His vocal tones were odd, sounding awkward and ill-practiced, as if he didn’t use them much.

Hermione supposed that he probably didn’t.

“Tell you what. I’ll do better than that. I’ll start _showing_ you.” He smiled at her.

For some reason that she could not explain, that smile appeared almost like a threat—but only for a moment.

* * *

Hermione took a pear drop from the candy dish and gazed across the desk at Dumbledore. He had become increasingly intimidating to her mind, somehow, although he looked the same and wore the same benevolent visage.

“Miss Green, are you still doing well? You had a good holiday?”

“Yes, Professor,” she said. “It’s honestly been wonderful to see the castle as it is supposed to be.”

He looked oddly at her.

“You remember that I arrived covered in wounds, and that there had been a battle at the school.”

“Ah yes. I do remember.” He smiled. “I noticed that you and Mr. Riddle have become very close.”

Heat crept up her cheeks. There was no point denying it. Tom had been flaunting their relationship to the whole school, and since he was the Head Boy and had been unattainable—and uninterested for years, apparently—people noticed.

“Yes, we have,” she said firmly. “I did not expect that to happen—my first impression of him was negative, if you remember”—Dumbledore nodded—“but it did. He has been very good to me. It would have been wrong to hold him responsible for the things that happened in my original timeline that made me dislike him. He’s a different person.”

“I certainly believe in the power of redemption and personal choices,” he acknowledged. “I have been worried about Mr. Riddle for years, as you know. He certainly seems to have expanded his horizon to include you, which is a good thing.”

Dumbledore looked sad, which struck Hermione as odd, given what he had been talking about. “Professor?” she asked hesitantly.

“I’m sorry, Miss Green, but I have to do this.”

Before Hermione could react, he leaned forward sharply, blue eyes boring fiercely into her own.

Her mind reeled. Fragments of memory flashed before her mind’s eye, pulled to the forefront by an outside force rather than her own will.

 _You aren’t seeing that,_ she thought suddenly, slamming the professor away from a particularly compromising memory of her and Tom.

More memories. Rosier, Lestrange, and Avery were nursing aches— _no,_ Hermione thought, _not that one either._

Dumbledore, however, seemed to be after something else entirely. He disregarded the memories of the past four months, his presence tossing them aside.

A memory of Grindelwald’s handsome face and grey-gold hair appeared before her mind’s eye. Dumbledore focused briefly on that image, not delving farther into the memory itself, before tossing it aside and continuing.

Finally the turmoil in her mind ceased, and a single memory played back in full. Hermione was covered in battle wounds, holding a Time-Turner. The call of a phoenix sounded, and Fawkes descended on her just as she spun the object.

Dumbledore’s mental presence pulled away, leaving her disoriented. She stared at him in shock and distrust. She could not speak.

The professor was rubbing his forehead, grimacing, looking ashamed. “I am so sorry,” he said. “It did happen the way you said. Fawkes did do it. I apologize.”

“Professor, what—”

“I had to check,” Dumbledore said heavily. “I understand why you did not tell me much about the world you came from, but I have become concerned…. If you were meant to change something, and you came from the scene of a battle, it has occurred to me that it could relate to Grindelwald. The idea, I am now ashamed to say, entered my head that he might have had you sent back to alter events relating to what I hope will be his downfall.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Oh, not you _too!”_ She felt sick. Did _everyone_ but Tom think she was working for Grindelwald?

“I’m so sorry,” Dumbledore said again.

Hermione stood up, her eyes burning. Her emotions were a storm from having her memories sifted through and tossed about. “Professor Dumbledore, do you imagine that Grindelwald is an isolated problem, a fluke in time? Self-styled Dark Lords and rabble-rousers will continue to prey on the wizarding community until some major changes are made in the way we see the world.” She stared at him. “I was not sent here with a mission—at least, not one that I know about. I wasn’t sent here by a person.”

“I know,” Dumbledore said penitently. “Please forgive me. I thought it might be a matter of the security of this school. I should have listened to my original instincts about you, and not allowed doubts to fester, but these are dark times.”

Hermione’s angry sense of betrayal cooled a bit. “I understand,” she said. “And it was only Legilimency. I’ve… been through worse from people who wanted to know something. I just wish—you could have just asked for the memory.”

“Memories can be tampered with,” he said quietly. “But you are right. I should have trusted you, and I’m sorry.”

* * *

Hermione left the office still in a certain amount of emotional turmoil. She could see the reasoning behind what Dumbledore had done, and she had already ceased to think of him as “her” Dumbledore—but it still hurt that he would suspect her.

 _I suspect him,_ she thought uncomfortably. _I suspect him in the kidnapping incident in Hogsmeade._ She tried to place blame on Tom for that thought entering her mind, but she knew she could not. It had already intruded upon the edge of her mind almost as soon as Grindelwald’s henchman brought her back to the village. Was it hypocritical of her to suspect her professor but to be upset at being suspected herself? Her sole piece of evidence was that he had put Tom on hall duty that day, which was unusual for him. That was no better than Dumbledore’s own circumstantial evidence.

Or… was that her only evidence anymore? Dumbledore had focused briefly on her memory of Grindelwald, she recalled. He had considered that one before going on to find the time-travel memory, but he had not asked her about it. Was that because he already knew why she had that memory?

Hermione wanted nothing more at this moment than a mug of hot cocoa, a good book, and the warm flames of her private hearth in the Room of Requirement. Sighing, she rounded a corner to head for the stairs.

—And immediately heard voices, neither of which belonged to Tom or anyone else she didn’t mind seeing her. She recognized them as Roland Lestrange and Vincent Rosier, and they were coming her way.

There were no doors in this part of the castle. Hermione quickly cast a Disillusionment Charm over herself and hovered behind a pillar of an archway. The boys continued, their voices growing louder.

“Things are about to change,” Lestrange said in a gloating tone.

They passed through the archway and continued. Rosier suddenly stopped. He gazed at the archway, frowning. Hermione held her breath. _It’s cast perfectly,_ she told herself. _Perfectly. There isn’t even a shadow. He can’t see me._

Rosier turned back to Lestrange. “You had word, then?” he asked.

Lestrange grinned. “My father is working with the Blacks. They’re about to _get_ the blood-traitors Green and Riddle.”

Hermione’s heart thudded in dread. Tom would have to know about this. She was in a perfect position to spy for him, if only they would stay in this corridor and talk about this.

Rosier stiffened. “That’s… a bold claim.”

Lestrange frowned.

“I mean… it didn’t work before. She got away.”

“Got away from what?”

Rosier shifted. “Well, _my_ father told me. Guess yours didn’t. You can ask him.”

Lestrange scowled. “I’ll do that, then. You enjoy whatever secret you have, if you like that.” His scowl changed to a leer. “Or you could just tell me after I tell you what’s about to go down.”

“Depends on what you have to say.”

“You’re awfully shirty, considering. I wouldn’t sound so ungrateful to Pollux Black if I were you.”

Rosier glared. _“You_ aren’t Pollux Black.”

Lestrange grinned. “Oh, I get it.” He scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, that’s tough luck. But what with your sister’s betrothal to the man’s son and everything, it would look bad in this political climate. You have to know that.”

 _What are they talking about?_ Hermione wondered.

Rosier seemed to be a bit lost as well, though he was trying diligently to hide it and find out what Lestrange was referring to. That was odd. Lestrange was speaking as someone who knew that his friend—or whatever they were—knew all about what he was discussing and there was no need for a reminder.

“Anyway,” Lestrange said proudly, “this is _Mr._ Black’s idea— _Arcturus_ Black, you know.” He spoke the name almost reverently. “And it’ll work. I don’t know about you, but I am _sick_ of Riddle.” He scowled. “Sadistic bastard. As if he has the right to—”

Rosier rubbed his arm. “Yeah.”

Lestrange lowered his voice. “So Mr. Black and Pollux Black are going to get him. He thinks he’s got an in at Magical Law Enforcement, because Slughorn likes him. Little does the Slug know that he’s going down too. He shouldn’t have thrown his lot in with Riddle and Green.” He grinned again. “It’ll probably even get Dumbledore. And _I’ll_ get Riddle’s spot in the Department.”

Hermione suddenly realized that this was what Lestrange was boasting about, and what Rosier couldn’t have because of how it would look.

Rosier’s face cleared too. For a brief moment, there was a flash of intense anger on his face, but fortunately for him, Lestrange did not notice.

Lestrange glanced around the hallway, his gaze passing over Hermione without stopping. She let out the breath she did not even realize she was holding.

“Pollux Black is going to file evidence against Green and Riddle,” Lestrange said. His voice was almost a whisper.

 _“Real_ evidence?”

“No, but what difference does it make? It’ll have the seal of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement on it.”

“Does the Minister know?”

Lestrange scoffed. “Of course not. Nobody else in the Ministry knows. Honestly, did somebody Confund you? You’re acting like you don’t know anything.”

Rosier’s face hardened again.

“The _point_ of it is to discredit Dumbledore—and Slughorn, for good measure. And to get rid of the blood-traitors. I confess I’ll be thrilled to see Riddle get his, but the big picture is politics. Father doesn’t like how Dumbledore has the ear of the Minister, but ‘it’s necessary because of the war,’” he quoted mockingly. “It won’t be necessary if Dumbledore’s little cousin and Slughorn’s pet are accused of spying for the enemy.”

 _Tom has to know about this,_ Hermione thought again. _I have to tell him. This is really, really bad._

“So it’s Mr. Black and Pollux Black,” Rosier said, almost to himself. “And our fathers. And Malfoy knows?”

“Malfoy knows.”

Rosier nodded. “Right, then. That _is_ an important secret.”

Lestrange looked smug. “And you know, Vince, after all the blood-traitors are discredited, it’ll only be natural to get you a spot in Law Enforcement after all. Things will be different then. So… be patient,” he finished patronizingly.

A final surge of anger flashed over Rosier and passed at once. He turned around and stared at the archway against which Hermione was slinking invisibly.

No. Not the archway. Hermione’s heart stopped as he looked directly at her face. She sat as still as she could, not wanting to move, not wanting to risk even a ripple. _He can’t see me. He can’t. He hasn’t cast Homenum Revelio. He does not know I’m here._

Rosier turned away. “Let’s go, then,” he said gruffly.

The boys continued walking down the deserted corridor. Hermione let out her breath when they were finally out of sight and their footfalls were inaudible to her. Then she stood up and dashed for the seventh floor.

Once inside the Room of Requirement, she looked frantically around her living space. “Tom, are you here?” she called out.

No answer. She withdrew her wand and cast the revealer spell. Her wand did nothing. He was not here.

 _He must be in the common room or his dormitory,_ she thought. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes. Her muscles gradually relaxed. At last she felt able to get up, start the long walk to the dungeons, and find him.

When she entered the common room, she glanced around it quickly. There were several of the upperclassmen. There was Lestrange, she noticed with a shudder. He glanced up and leered evilly at her.

Rosier wasn’t there. That… was weird. He had _just_ been with Lestrange. Tom was not there either.

Hermione frowned. She did not want to draw attention to herself, and she really did not want to enter the boys’ dormitory alone if she did not know whether he was really there. As nonchalantly as she could, she left the room and headed back into the hallway.

It would not do to wander the castle aimlessly until he turned up. Eventually he would come to the Room of Requirement. She realized she probably should have stayed there in the first place. With this many people plotting against her, it _was_ dangerous for her to be in the castle alone.

She wanted something to eat first, though, and the kitchens were closer than the Room of Requirement. She headed in that direction.

“I’m sure it’s just a foolish prank, Galatea,” Slughorn’s voice sounded through the dungeons. “Looked like a Confundus to me.”

“It wasn’t Dark,” the other teacher agreed. Hermione recognized the voice of Professor Merrythought, the Defense teacher. “But I really think we need to consider addressing the discipline problem at this school—”

“They need to get it out of their systems,” Slughorn said. “Even Muggle children have to. He’ll be perfectly fine. Oh—my dear Miss Green!”

The professors had just rounded the corner and come face-to-face with Hermione.

“Professor,” she said in acknowledgment.

“Rare to see you without Tom by your side,” Slughorn remarked. “Take care; you don’t want to lose him.” He winked.

“I was looking for him,” Hermione explained. “I don’t suppose you have seen him?”

Both teachers shook their heads. “Might as well tell you,” Slughorn murmured, “since he’s in your House and all. We just found your classmate, Rosier—Vincent Rosier—stuffed into a closet, unconscious, and when we woke him up, he acted Confunded.”

 _What the hell?_ Hermione thought. It hadn’t been _that_ long since she saw Rosier walking with Lestrange.

Her confusion must have shown on her face. “I’m sure it’s just someone’s idea of a prank,” Slughorn said reassuringly.

“Undoubtedly,” Hermione said. “Well—I hope he recovers soon. It was good to see you, both of you.”

She continued her trek to the kitchens, thinking over the encounter. She hated to think it, but had Tom already found Rosier and done that to him? And if so, why not Lestrange too? Lestrange was the worse of the two, she thought, and yet he seemed to be perfectly himself.

After she had her snack, she headed back to the Room of Requirement and resolved to wait for Tom to show up. She walked past the empty wall, asking for her room, and opened the door when it appeared.

Tom was already there. He was seated in his armchair, gazing at the hearth with utter, unmitigated rage on his face. His features were distorted with anger.

“Tom?”

He got up, seething. “What did Dumbledore want?”

Hermione had almost forgot about that, considering the conspiracy to frame them that she had just discovered. “He… checked my memory to ensure that I really had time-traveled the way I told him. He thought Grindelwald might have sent me back.”

Tom scoffed. “Pathetic. So he was satisfied, then?”

“Yes. That was all there was to it. Tom, what is the matter?”

“Hermione, I meant to explain some things to you, and I promise you I will… but not right at the moment.”

“Sit down,” she said, trying to calm him. If he was this worked up already—over _what?_ —she dreaded telling him her most recent news. “I have something important to tell you, but you need to try to be calm,” she said.

He strode around the room. “Hermione, I cannot be calm. I have been—God, I can’t believe—” He broke off.

She stood across from him, gazing at his face.

The effect seemed to calm him a jot. “I owe you an apology, Hermione.”

She was knocked off balance. _What_ was he so upset about? “For what?” she asked.

“For letting things spiral out of control. It was one thing when it was just myself, but this has endangered you. It’s already hurt you. I need to start fixing it. I… should never have let it go on this long.” He drew close to her and enveloped her in his arms.

Hermione still had no idea what, specifically, he was perturbed about, but it seemed that it would have to come out in Tom’s own time. She returned the embrace and kissed him on the cheek. He turned her head slightly and pressed his lips against hers.

They remained in the kiss until he finally broke it. He looked calmer and more collected, she noticed.

He smoothed his hair. “Hermione, I promise I will hear you out. We’ll tell each other everything very soon. But I have to ask you not to leave this room until I return.”

“Return?” she exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

He strode toward the door and grabbed his cloak. “To take care of unfinished business. I have postponed something for far too long.” His voice seethed with anger and resolution.

With a parting look and a swish of robes, he left the Room of Requirement. Hermione collapsed on her usual armchair and stared ahead blankly.

 _What was that all about?_ The question screamed through her mind, but her thoughts gave her no answer.

 


	15. Fracturing a Fairy Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for character death and explicitly detailed dark content.** If you wanted dark maybe-antihero Tom, you’ve got him now.

Hermione was relieved when the familiar creak of her door sounded. Whatever Tom had been doing, he was back. She got up from her desk and prepared to meet him. He looked good, she thought idly as she hugged him in greeting. His hair was windswept and his clothes had that look that indicated that their wearer had been very active and busy.

His return hug was distracted and halfhearted. “Did you do—whatever it was you intended to do?” she asked, half afraid of the answer.

“Yes and no. Right now you need to come out to the Forbidden Forest.”

“The Forbidden Forest?” she repeated. “What’s out _there?”_

He smiled oddly. “You’ll find out. I told you I would start sharing things with you, remember. I want you to see this.”

Hermione grabbed her cloak and wand and hurried out the door next to him. They began to walk down the many flights of stairs. She thought about what he had said as she walked. Although it seemed that she would finally get some answers, she was no longer sure that she wanted them. Everything about this felt ominous. What could he have to show her that he couldn’t bring into the castle? What could he not discuss in the _Secret-Kept_ Room of Requirement?

They left the castle, crossed the grounds unseen, and headed into the forest. It was night, so the forest was ill-lit and felt sinister. Hermione unconsciously drew closer to him.

They walked deeper into the forest, and Hermione soon sensed a powerful magic shield ahead. It was the same type of shield that she herself had put up during her travels with Harry and Ron, one that made anything in it invisible to outsiders, so this was very familiar magic to her. It was also very powerful. _What_ was Tom hiding? He _had_ left with a threat on his lips to take care of “unfinished business.”

They were on the periphery of the shield, she could tell. She looked at him expectantly. Tom smirked and waved his wand. The edges of the shield appeared as ripples of light and glittered up the bubble as the shield dissolved from the ground up. A yellow-white glow emanated from under the shield, and Hermione observed that Tom had hung a lantern from a sapling that was completely beneath the shield.

Underneath the shield was a bound, unconscious man sitting with his knees bent. He was breathing but immobilized. Hermione’s heart sank as she recognized the man’s face. This was Pollux Black, who had brutally tortured her and who was planning to falsify evidence framing them as spies.

She turned to Tom, suddenly understanding the situation. He was busy replacing the shield around them, making Black, the light, and themselves invisible to anyone or anything that might approach this clearing in the forest. He finished putting the shield back up and turned around to face her, his eyes gleaming with greed, triumph, and vengeance.

“How did you capture him?” she whispered.

He shrugged arrogantly. “It was embarrassingly easy. I Disillusioned myself and ambushed the fool outside the Ministry Apparition area. Disgusting, really. All the more reason to remove him. He is a disgrace to the position he holds.”

“Tom,” she said, her heart seeming to drop through her shoes. “If this is about avenging what he did to me, I appreciate the thought, but this is not a good idea.”

He frowned. “Hermione, don’t be absurd. This man tortured you. He carved part of the word ‘traitor’ into your very skin.”

“But you fixed it. Tom, it’s too risky. He’s a Ministry official,” she pleaded, trying to appeal to his reason. “A Department Head.”

“Exactly,” Tom hissed. He gave her a penetrating look. “Because of that, the risk of letting him live is greater. There is a conspiracy afoot and he is the key. You overheard the conversation I had with Lestrange.”

“The conversation _you_ had with Lestrange? It was—” She broke off, suddenly realizing something. “No, of course, the other potion you took from Slughorn’s office—”

Tom looked smug. “Five points to Slytherin. I knew that they were up to something, and I had to find out what. Polyjuice is really incredibly useful. The problem with Veritaserum is that you have to ask the right questions. You should be glad I did, so I can take care of the situation pre-emptively.”

“But Tom, you won’t be able to cover it up….” She trailed off, remembering the fourth year from her own time, and how a Head of a Ministry Department had been murdered on school grounds and it _had_ been covered up until the killer confessed. They had never found the Transfigured body of Bartemius Crouch.

Tom was smirking. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do, Hermione. I assure you I have no difficulty covering _anything_ up.” He put up his hand as she opened her mouth to object. “I know that you found out some things I did, but I have learned. I can get into his cousin’s house now, after what I got out of his mind, and he will be found dead in the parlor, the apparent victim of some of the nasty objects Arcturus keeps around.” He smiled darkly. “There is a silver-and-opal necklace in there that holds an incredible curse. Possibly that.”

Hermione winced. That was surely the same silver-and-opal necklace that turned up in sixth year. At some point the Blacks must have sold it to Borgin and Burkes. That necklace almost killed Katie Bell in her time, so this plan might well work.

She tried something else. “Tom, I’m—not all right, exactly, you can never be all right after that, but this won’t fix what happened. It won’t make it go away.”

“Then if it makes you feel better, I’m not doing it just for you. He has to die. He will accuse us of espionage to the Minister otherwise.” He turned to the bound man and flicked his wand. The ropes binding him vanished, and he opened his eyes. They fixed upon Tom and Hermione with hatred.

“You vile little reprobate!” Black spat. Apparently he was still immobilized by some spell, but it let him speak. “Filthy-blooded upstart from Merlin knows where—”

“Tsk tsk,” Tom said airily, swishing his wand. “Such prejudiced talk for the Head of a Ministry Department supposed to protect all wizardkind.” He peered at the man with an evil smile. “But then, you don’t even uphold your own laws, do you? Capturing Hogwarts students, taking them to your private residence, and torturing them for information they don’t have? Plotting to fabricate evidence in order to discredit your political opponents? Not a good Law Enforcer at all, are you?”

Black sneered. “Your girlfriend deserved what I did even if she didn’t have information on the Kraut blood-traitor. She is an _aberration,_ rather like you.”

_“Crucio!”_

Black twitched and screamed on the forest floor, his movements restricted by the spell that he was still under. Tom stood over him, his gaze hard and set.

Finally he lifted the curse. Black continued whimpering from the pain. A stream of silver magic then flowed from Tom’s wand, shining and sharply edged as the blade of a knife.

It reached Pollux Black and wrapped around his arm three times, slicing cleanly through his robes, through his flesh, like razor wire cutting into his skin. Blood erupted from his arm in ribbons. He screamed again. Branches split off the primary stream of magic and cut new paths into his skin, like silver vines growing rapidly on his arm. The blood puddled on the forest floor.

Tom ended the curse. All the blood, whether on the ground or on Black, swirled into the air in a stream of vapor. Black yelled as it was apparently sucked from his arm. The red vapor vanished, and Black’s arm thudded to the ground. The open wounds were gone, but the arm looked shriveled. Hermione was reminded of Dumbledore’s cursed hand, except that Black’s arm was dead white. He continued to whimper. Tom scowled at him, annoyed at the noise. He silenced the man and turned to Hermione, who was staring in horror.

“Don’t tell me that doesn’t make you feel good, watching him suffer the same way he made you.”

Hermione could not respond. A dead weight was seeping through her body. _I am going to watch someone be killed,_ she thought with a strange level of detachment. But of course his idea of a token of affection was the tortured corpse of her enemy. She never should have let herself forget what he already was. He was not the red-eyed, snake-faced, insane inhuman monster of her time, but he was still a Dark wizard with a thoroughly dysfunctional moral compass.

As if to prove the point she was making in her thoughts, he cast a punching curse at Black. The twitching form reeled again.

“Shall I give him more, or end it? You were the one this scum tortured, Hermione,” Tom said. “It’s up to you.” He considered. “Or perhaps you’d like to have a go yourself?”

It was then that Hermione realized that there was nothing she could do about this. She had already tried to persuade him and failed. If she took his wand, he would try to take it back. Tom saw this as a necessity. No, he also saw it as a _gift,_ with his “unique” take on chivalry, and she knew that he would not react well to having his “gifts” scorned.

But she was not going to torture someone. She was not going to tell Tom to further torture someone who was doomed anyway. She was better than that, and better than what this same man had done to her. And, so help her, but she actually saw Tom’s point. Black _did_ have to die, considering what he was planning to do. A minor Obliviation wouldn’t suffice; he would just be reminded by his peers. A major one would put him in the permanent resident ward at St. Mungo’s, which seemed much crueler to her.

She shook her head at Tom. “Just finish it,” she said, trying to project strength.

“I hope that isn’t out of _mercy.”_

Hermione’s heart twisted again at the contempt he put into that word. “I might have been able to cast Cruciatus on him—in retaliation—soon after it happened,” she said haltingly. “But it’s been long enough, and some of the pain has faded, and you’ve already punished him. I’m sure you made him hurt more than he made me,” she added, the words sour on her lips, disgusted with herself for using his torturing skills to try to compliment and influence him.

He regarded her loftily. “No doubt… and this is just the prelude, after all.”

Hermione turned her face away. She still did not want to watch the green light actually strike Black, or the life leave his body.

“Hermione, you wanted to know. I am placing _immense_ trust in you by letting you see what I am about to do. I _insist_ that you watch. I do not often bestow sincere compliments and I don’t like having them rejected when I do.”

_Well, after all, it isn’t the first time I’ve watched someone die of that curse. At least he’s not an innocent._ Hermione reluctantly turned around to face Black, who was gritting his teeth and glaring defiantly at Tom, aware of his fate.

“You will lose,” Tom said in flat tones to Pollux Black. “All your ilk. You are obsolete. You are blind. No, you will not lose to fools like Dumbledore, but you _will_ lose. This is just the beginning.” He smiled hollowly. _“Avada Kedavra.”_

The jet of bright green light shot from Tom’s wand and struck Black squarely in the chest. His eyes closed, his jaw slacked, and he fell to the ground with an anticlimactic thud.

Hermione’s chest was tight, and her breaths were coming short and fast. She hardly dared to speak. _That was murder in cold blood,_ she thought. She tried to argue against the conclusion, to convince herself that it was pre-emptive self-defense, but she could not do it.

“That’s done,” Tom said, almost to himself. He turned to Hermione. “He will never hurt you again,” he added unnecessarily.

She could not reply.

Tom reached in his robes for something. Hermione frowned. Now what was he up to? Something else to do to the body, since Tom was going to make it appear that his own possessions had killed him? Did she have to watch _that_ too?

The movement in his robe pocket ceased; he had apparently found what he was searching for. He smiled faintly and withdrew a diary bound in dark blue leather.

Hermione reacted instinctively. _“No!”_ she shouted. She launched herself at him, grabbing for the book.

He swished his wand and flung her away harmlessly, diary still in hand. She landed against the side of the shield, which stretched slightly to dissipate the force of the impact and then rebounded. She righted herself and stared at him, pleading with her eyes.

“Tom, don’t do this to yourself.”

He looked at her oddly, affronted that she would dare to attack him and impressed that she instantly grasped what he planned. He raised an eyebrow. “I told you I was not killing Black just for you, Hermione.”

“So this is better? Tom, _don’t._ I knew you didn’t have any—I thought you weren’t going to—”

“I’ve been intending to do it for two years, and this is the perfect killing to use. I’m not about to change my mind because of your inexplicable squeamishness on the subject.” His words were suddenly cold.

Hermione felt something die inside her. Weeks—months—of investment in the hope that he could be saved from himself were vanishing before her eyes. This was much worse than watching him kill Pollux Black to avenge her and thwart a conspiracy. A dark part of her had whispered that Black deserved exactly what he got, but this was very different. This was not an act of harsh justice. It was an act of violence against the very essence of himself that Hermione had—she had to admit it—fallen in love with, and that she thought had fallen for her, against all odds.

_How could I not have seen it coming?_ she wondered. Had she really been so blinded by her heart as to dwell in a fairy tale? With a sinking feeling, she realized that she _had_ been ignoring weeks of occasional hints that he was still interested in the idea, most recently the assertion that he was going to challenge Grindelwald for the Elder Wand and “had a plan” involving the Dark Arts.

“So that’s it?” she asked, her tones now as icy as his. “I’m squeamish? I guess I’m too squeamish to watch you do it, then.”

“You _are_ going to watch me.”

“No, I’m not.” To reinforce her statement, she defiantly turned her back and faced the shield and the forest surrounding this clearing.

She felt something lash around her and pull her around against her will. The magical confinement remained even after the motion ceased, and Hermione found that she could not turn around or even turn her neck. Tom was glaring at her. _“Yes, you are._ I told you I don’t like it when my compliments are spurned.”

Bitterness and disbelief filled her. “This is your idea of a compliment? You think you’re flattering me by making me watch you torture and murder and then _tear part of your soul out?_ What do you—”

_“Silencio,”_ he snapped.

Hermione felt a new wave of betrayal flood her. He had never dismissed her with a spell like that. She glared at him, meeting his eyes.

_I’ll tell someone. I’ll tell Dumbledore._ She willed him to read the thought.

He laughed. “No, you won’t,” he answered her verbally. “You’re not on that old man’s side anymore, for one. But more importantly, I would go to Azkaban for life, and they would destroy it. You would not be able to watch a part of me be destroyed. Not now.”

_He’s wrong. I will tell someone. I will._ Hermione thought this over and over, rolling the conviction over in her mind as if it were a talisman. _Or trying to convince myself?_ She quickly banished that thought.

Tom seemed to know what she was thinking even though he was not looking directly into her eyes anymore. He smirked knowingly at her before turning his attention to the ritual.

He slowly levitated the diary to the forest floor and flicked his wand to open it. Pages fluttered in the cold air before it settled. Tom cast a spell at the diary that manifested from his wand as a gold shining thread of light. A bead of gold appeared at the wand tip and sped down the thread with a whooshing sound, disappearing into the pages of the diary. The book glowed golden briefly before the light faded.

Hermione was reminded of Harry’s description of the Priori Incantatem effect. There had been a thread of gold connecting his wand with Voldemort’s, and he had to force a gold bead down the connection. Hermione had also read all about the steps to create a Horcrux in _Secrets of the Darkest Art,_ and she knew which one this was. Tom was connecting the diary with his own personal magic. That was what the gold thread and bead always meant, in fact, in many spells. With Harry, there had been resistance because he had been fighting another wizard’s magic. There was no such resistance from the diary.

Hermione also knew this would be by far the least disturbing step of the procedure.

Tom took a deep breath, apparently steeling himself for what he had to do next. His face was set, resolute, and grim. He rolled up his left sleeve and held his arm over the open diary. He swiped his wand over his forearm, opening a deep wound on his otherwise pristine skin, the Dark magic cutting through layers of integument. Bright red, pulsing blood spurted from it and spattered onto the pages of the diary. Hermione could smell the iron from where she stood. This was arterial blood. That horrible book had specified that. After being connected with the caster’s magic, the object had to be infused with the “life-giving blood” of the caster, establishing it as a “body” of sorts through Dark symbolic magic.

Tom was paling as his blood pulsed out, but he held his arm over the book anyway. After enough drops had finally fallen on the pages, he quickly cast a healing spell on his arm, wincing as the wound closed. Hermione realized it was probably the Dark healing spell he had used on her, and it appalled her that he would use it for this. _But of course it wouldn’t do for you to die of blood loss before you can finish the job,_ she thought angrily.

She knew it was a three-stage ritual, and she knew what the last, most dangerous step was. Once he started that step, he _had_ to complete it successfully or unpredictable phenomena could occur. The soul fragment might be lost entirely. It might reintegrate with him, though that was unlikely, given his intent. It might go for _her,_ she thought with a shudder. Or he might die. She still held a faint hope that somehow he would be prevented from starting it—that someone would approach, or he would lose his nerve, or _anything._

Tom hesitated for a moment. Hermione held her breath, hoping, hoping—but in the next moment, he pointed his wand at his own head to perform the final process. He cast a whispered spell that she did not hear, but it sounded profoundly sinister. He moved the wand away slowly from his head in an arc, and she could tell it caused him exquisite pain. He widened his eyes and sucked in his cheeks. Part of her wanted to rush over and stop him, make the hurting cease, but she couldn’t move—couldn’t even speak—and she was not responsible for his actions. She was _not._

Hermione watched helplessly as a small glowing blob of white emerged from his body, connected by a few fine silver threads to his head, following the tip of his wand as he directed it over—but she knew instinctively that there was something terribly wrong with it. It was misshapen, looking like an irregular slice hacked crudely out of a circle. The curved side of it had a softly tapering white glow, but the shattered edge crackled with a thin border—a wound kept from healing—that was very dark red, fully saturated, and so close to black that it felt like a void that could suck in anything that drew too close. A faint cry wailed from it, and the dark edge seemed to fluctuate minutely as it did, glittering with tiny red flashes.

She didn’t want to see this. It made her sick. It made her _sad._ That book had not said anything about how it would _look,_ and she was not prepared for this. Hermione realized that she was looking at the manifestation of a soul—part—in the worst agony, _bleeding_ in a way, calling out in protest and pain from the separation from the rest of itself, and it made her want to weep. Or vomit. Or both.

The broken orb of light hovered just above the surface of the diary, drawn there by the faint, but renewed, gold glow of Tom’s magic in the book and the power of his lifeblood. Hermione tore her gaze from it to observe that it was still connected to him. The silver threads glimmered faintly in the lantern light like strands of a spider’s web, thinner and more fragile than they had appeared a moment ago, linking to the soul orb on the jagged edge and continuing to Tom’s head. Hermione held her breath. If he didn’t cross the point of no return, it might _still_ be drawn back to him with that connection intact….

With a huge, devastatingly final sweep of his wand, he severed the threads. They disappeared, breaking into segments and fading in a fraction of a second. The shattered orb sank into the diary.

The book glowed with white and gold light, pages fluttering although there was no wind. Everything on the pages—writing, picture memories, drops of bright red blood—vanished, sucked into the diary at the behest of their producer’s soul fragment, leaving unassuming blank pages. The light surrounding the book faded, and the cover closed itself.

Tom gasped for breath, then breathed again, heavily and repeatedly. He seemed determined not to look weak by bending or collapsing on his knees. Finally he regained his composure and seemed to remember that Hermione was there. He waved his wand, lifting the spells on her.

Hermione whirled away and ran into the invisible shield immediately. Wincing, she turned around to look at him. He was gazing at her with an air of knowing, amused patience that made her feel far more despair than anger at this moment. He summoned the Horcrux and moved toward her with it in hand, looking utterly satisfied with himself.

She was haunted by that soul fragment and the evidence of the pain it was in. Her gut twisted again at the memory, still fresh and vivid in her mind. “How _could_ you?” she choked out. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. She wiped them away roughly.

“Hermione, I know I’m not a paragon of honesty, but I’ve never lied to _you_ about the kind of magic I practice. It is hardly my fault if you chose not to see that.”

Hermione stared back at him, eyes wide and empty, unable to argue.

He glanced back at the body with distaste. “I have to take care of this,” he said clinically. “I don’t insist that you watch.” Before she realized what he was doing, he had an arm possessively around her shoulders, trying to bring her close to him. He pressed the diary against her chest. “But if you would take this to your room and keep it safe—”

Hermione could not believe this. It was twisted. It was mad. _He_ was mad to think that he could do this and then immediately offer her affection—and even expect her to keep and protect the thing. She recoiled, shoving him away. His eyes flashed with surprise. As they did, she noticed that there was now a glint of red in the life dots of his pupils at a certain angle that had not been there before.

“Get away from me!” she snarled. She took her wand out and darted around the periphery of the shield, eyeing him like the predator he was. Her wand hand shook. “Don’t come anywhere near me, you Dark wizard!” She hurled the term as if it were a curse.

His features were devoid of emotion, but it appeared forced, a deliberate closing down to avoid showing something else to her. The glints in his pupils flashed red again, windows of the soul. “You can’t possibly be _that_ surprised,” he said. “You knew what I was before you ever met me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A larger version of the illustration can be found [on my Tumblr](http://betagyre-penname.tumblr.com/post/142608019169/illustration-2). Click on the image in the Tumblr post for it.


	16. Rupture and Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I’m glad you’re still around. I didn’t think the fic would be ditched en masse, because this is inherently a dark pairing. Still, the specific way I wrote that particular issue (he does end up with a Horcrux, but it wasn’t already created when she arrived and he does it in the story itself) seems to be rare with the “changeable timeline/Voldemort isn’t inevitable” setup, so I wasn’t sure how it would go over. The fic has picked up several more kudos and subscribers – thank you! – and the comments were not negative at all. So, go Team Dark, I guess! That said, I hope nobody reading this story silently is too disappointed. If you are, I hope you don’t give up on it. There is a lot yet to happen.
> 
> And now… we see the start of the aftermath. I am not sure how much I like this chapter, because not much happens in it, but I cannot release my other plot bombs just yet. You get a duel, though—a well-matched one this time.

_I don’t want anyone to get in. I don’t want anyone to get in, anyone at all._ Hermione told this to the Room of Requirement repeatedly as she clutched a pillow in her armchair. She wasn’t sure if it would actually keep Tom out once he returned from staging the scene at Grimmauld Place, but it was worth a try.

 _He’s Voldemort,_ she thought miserably. _I’ve failed; he’s failed; it’s all a failure._ In Hermione’s mind there had been three main factors that separated Tom from the Voldemort identity: blood purity fanaticism, violent murderous conduct, and Horcruxes. Discovering that seventh-year Tom was not interested in blood purity politics was a pleasant surprise. He already was a murderer, Hermione knew, but it was not something she personally had to face or think about, because it had happened over a year ago. Now, that factor defining “Voldemort” was in her face, _slapped_ in her face, and worse still, so was the third factor. And unlike a political viewpoint—even a very repulsive and personally offensive one to Hermione—taking life and tearing out part of one’s soul couldn’t be taken back.

_He could, theoretically, feel remorse and fix it that way, but he won’t. He will never regret that particular murder. Never. His father’s killing, possibly, if he could ever let go of his rejection issues, but not the murder he just committed._

Hermione squeezed the pillow and tried to avoid looking at the other armchair that the Room had conjured for her. She buried her face in the pillow, not to cry, but to hide everything from her sight.

He did not try to enter the room.

* * *

Hermione woke up early the next morning with dread in her gut. This hadn’t gone away overnight. It would never go away. And if Tom was successful at his cover-up—which she was sure he had been—then the “accident” would be a huge topic of discussion for the entire school, but especially Slytherin. It was the last thing in the world she wanted to think about, but she needed to get to the main area of the school and at least be present.

The common room was mostly empty, but it buzzed with hushed whispers. Every member of the Black family—Lucretia, Orion, Walburga, Alphard, and Cygnus—was absent.

 _He killed the father of three of his classmates,_ Hermione thought with another pang. _Pollux Black was a bigot, a crook, and a torturer, but he was their father._

Tom himself sat in a thronelike chair near the fire, his back turned to Hermione. He was conversing in low tones with Vincent Rosier and a couple of other boys. Hermione passed by the hearth icily, not acknowledging him. Rosier nudged him as she went by. He turned around but she kept going.

Hermione finally decided that there was nothing for her to do here and the risk of having to talk with Tom was too high for comfort. She whirled on her heel and headed out, then went to the Great Hall for breakfast.

She arrived at the table just in time for the morning owl post. Her only post was still the _Prophet,_ but she did want to see what the newspaper had to say this morning. She dropped a Knut into the owl’s coin pouch and opened the newspaper gingerly.

“Ministry Department Head Found Dead In Home! Dark Family Heirlooms Suspected,” blared the lead headline—just as she had expected. She grimaced. It appeared that Tom had pulled it off. She began to read.

 

_The surprise death of DMLE Head Pollux Black has shocked the Wizarding World. Black was found dead in the parlor of his family home, apparently killed by a cursed piece of jewelry. His right arm bore unmistakable signs of severe curse damage, and a separate Dark artifact was found nearby, spinning in circles repeatedly. Experts in the Ministry inform the Prophet that the artifact carried curses capable of inflicting comparable damage. Nonetheless, in deference to the fact that this is a time of war, a Ministry investigation has been launched to determine if the unexpected death of Black was indeed an accident as it appears._

_The timeline has been altered,_ Hermione suddenly realized. She did not recollect from the tapestry just when Pollux Black, one of Sirius’s grandparents, had died in the original timeline, but she did know from her history that there had not been any deaths of top Ministry officials in the war against Grindelwald. Tom certainly had never been suspected in such an event, though since the timeline was now different, that was no guarantee of—of—

Hermione’s heart pounded. It was wrong, and her conscience pricked at her for thinking it, but she wished that this investigation wasn’t happening.

She refused to consider why she thought that. Shoving the thought forcefully out of her mind, she read the article and continued down the front page. Immersed in the newspaper, she did not notice that most Slytherins had entered the Great Hall by now, including one in particular.

“Political Implications of Black’s Accident?”

Hermione scowled at the moving photograph of Septimus Weasley, but she started to read this article too.

 

_Minister Leonard Spencer-Moon has stated that he has not made a decision about the successor to Black’s post, and that it is too soon, but it is expected that interested parties are already making moves behind the scenes. In the meantime, a new political wrinkle has developed concerning stalled Ministry legislation. Septimus Weasley, Head of the Office of Domestic Wartime Operations and chief author of the Authorization for the Seizure of Dark or Dangerous Artifacts, weighed in on the death of his boss._

_“The tragic death of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement illustrates the extreme danger posed by Dark artifacts even to experienced wizards and witches,” Weasley said. “If a Ministry Department Head can fall victim to these objects in his family’s own home, their danger is manifest and requires no further proof. There is no safe handling possible. These objects need to be removed from our environment and no new ones created. I hope that the Wizarding community will rally around the bill in the wake of this terrible event and ensure that this death, the death of my wife Cedrella’s cousin, is not in vain.”_

_Other wizards and witches disagree with Weasley’s position, asserting that the artifacts that apparently killed Black were simply improperly secured. “It is crass of Weasley to use this death to promote his bill when the Ministry has not even begun an investigation,” said Pierre Lestrange._

 

Hermione saw everything at once. _That manipulative bastard._ She set down the newspaper, fuming, and noticed that Tom was eyeballing her. She gave him a death glare and finished her breakfast.

 _He has set this up so that if this investigation does call it an accident, both factions are guaranteed to make arses of themselves posturing about it, annoying most everyone, and then he’ll rush off to duel Grindelwald and play hero._ The thought made her seethe with anger and dismay. What had she created? What had she unleashed? Ruthless underhanded politician Riddle was surely just as bad as terrorist Voldemort when it came to the well-being of the wizarding world. Wasn’t he?

He was coming her way. She snapped her head up and scowled ferociously at him before sweeping up her newspaper and bags. He looked startled and angry as she left her seat, but she turned away and kept walking.

She got through her classes that day without having to interact with Tom, despite that she sat next to him in every one of them. Most students noticed that the school’s most gossip-worthy couple had apparently fallen out, but a few evidently wrote off Hermione’s silence to shock over the death.

Hermione tried to focus on preparing for her NEWTs, but she found that her feelings about class had reverted to what they had been at the beginning of the school year. She dreaded sitting next to Tom. Beneath the anger, she still felt a miserable, wretched sense of personal failure. She felt she should never have let herself care.

She scarfed down her dinner that evening, continuing to give Tom the cold shoulder. He now bore a face set in a constant low simmer, she noticed. She wondered how long it would take before he snapped. She certainly didn’t want to be the one to blink first. After dinner, she stalked off to the Room of Requirement and buried herself in homework. That evening, as she tried to get to sleep, she realized on some level that she could not ignore him forever. They would have to have it out at some point. She dreaded that, but she knew it was inevitable.

* * *

The next morning, she headed down to the Great Hall resignedly. It had to happen, and it might as well happen soon. She would not ignore him today.

As she approached the table, her gaze fixed upon something. A large, fresh bouquet of conjured red roses lay at her place. Tom sat next to them, smiling benignly.

Hermione sucked in her breath. Her face grew white with anger as her resignation turned to outrage. Did he think that she would have no choice but to accept them, because she was too afraid to reject him publicly? Well, he would learn.

With a ferocious scowl on her face, Hermione directed her wand at the roses, flicked it, and set the flowers on fire.

The Slytherins in the immediate vicinity leapt up from their seats, getting away from the flaming bouquet as fast as they could—all except one. Tom drew his wand and ended the spell, leaving a dried-up, burnt, smoking pile. He vanished it and got up from his seat.

Murmurs and sinister laughs began to fill the air. Tom stalked icily over to Hermione. He grabbed her arm roughly.

“Let me go!” she snarled.

He ignored her and bustled her out of the Great Hall, leaving the chatter behind.

“You’re hurting my arm,” she said when they were alone in the hallway. He loosened his grip on her but continued to march her down the hall and ultimately into the dungeons. He opened the door to one of the unused classrooms and pulled her inside. To be sure, he cast Muffliato— _which he learned from me,_ Hermione thought mutinously.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said conversationally. His tone was almost unnerving, it was so calm and yet so threatening. “You will not embarrass me in public, whatever your problem with me may be.”

“You know exactly what my problem is,” Hermione said icily.

He clenched his teeth. “It’s done. Isn’t it time to move on?”

She could not believe her ears. “That isn’t something that I can simply ‘move on’ from! You _know_ what it means to me to see you do that! Does that really not matter to you?” she cried.

He breathed heavily. “Here’s how much it matters! It was supposed to be private, something no one would ever find out, something that was just for me, _my_ secret. The real question is, does it mean nothing to _you_ that I made you part of it in every way? I avenged you, I paid that bastard back for what he did to you, and removed a threat to you—to us—”

“There is no ‘us,’” she said coldly.

“Yes, Hermione, there _is,”_ he snarled, backing her against the wall. “There will _always_ be ‘us.’ You’d best accept that.”

“Get the hell away from me,” she swore in a low, threatening tone.

“No. I am not letting you go. And I’m going to prove something to you.”

He pressed himself against her down to their hips, grabbed her face, and leaned in. His lips brushed roughly against hers, then he forced her mouth open and plundered her greedily. His fingers found their way into her bushy hair, and he nipped at her lips with his perfect teeth.

Hermione was at first enraged that he would dare force this, but as the kiss progressed, she felt the stirrings in her body that were now so very familiar. She needed the closeness, and nothing else mattered. She had the brief thought that she had desired and—yes—loved him even knowing that he was already a torturer, murderer, and Dark wizard. She _had_ known what he was. She had come to care about him anyway. With that thought, she stopped fighting him. She let him plunder her, then nipped his mouth in return, and then, almost involuntarily, her arms lifted and found purchase on his back.

At that moment he broke the kiss, smirking with unmitigated insolence and arrogance. “So, I killed the bastard for _us,”_ he said pointedly, “and I had you see the ritual, something no one was ever meant to see—the _only_ time I’m going to do it, and I let _you_ see it! I was going to give the diary to you.”

Hermione’s mouth twisted, the ardor of the previous moment gone. “And why do you think I would _want_ it?”

“Do you even know what that diary contains?”

“Yes, I think I do,” she said acerbically. “I saw you put it in there.”

“Leaving aside the fact that you’re saying, to my face, that you _don’t want_ something containing part of my soul,” he ground out, “I meant what _else_ it contains.”

“I’m sure it contains your notes about discovering your basilisk—”

“Wrong,” he snapped. “It’s my diary from last year, 1944. The latter half of it is about you, the effect that you had on me. This was a compliment to you on several levels, and you took all that and threw it back in my face!” His voice wavered for a moment.

Hermione stepped sideways, away from him. Her eyes were wide with shock and something else, something Tom thought was disgustingly like pity.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said, her voice wavering with awe and wonder. “You really don’t understand. You know that I spent a year of my life living in a tent, trying to hunt down _your Horcruxes,_ and yet you truly don’t see why it would bother me to be forced to watch you _make_ one. Or more importantly, why I might have been invested in saving you and might not want you to harm and diminish yourself.”

“Then you should be pleased!” he snapped defensively. “I am stronger for it, not weaker. I’m going to fight the Elder Wand. What was I to do, not protect myself? Out of some bizarre notion that dying ‘honorably’ is better than winning by whatever means necessary? Dying is a _failure…_ and I’m not even just talking about the duel.”

She shook her head in amazement. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Tom ignored this. “You fear failure too. I’ve seen your boggart in Defense. Not so different from mine, really.”

Hermione stepped back as if slapped. _He is not implying what it sounds like he is._

“My boggart shape has nothing to do with anything,” she said, trying not to raise her voice and give him the satisfaction of seeing her ire. “Failure and death are different, or we wouldn’t even have different boggarts.”

He lowered his voice and leaned over her again. She tried to edge to the right to escape, but he planted his hands on either side of her and hissed in her ear. “I also saw your memories of the Veil of Death at the Ministry. You were afraid of it,” he said in a low sibilant undertone, enjoying seeing her squirm at that recollection. “Your friends weren’t, but _you_ were afraid of the idea of joining those voices.”

That did it. Remembering that battle—remembering Harry and Ron and Ginny—and wondering, now, if they were on the other side of that Veil or if they simply did not even exist yet as souls, if their very _existence_ now had been put in jeopardy by her time here—broke her. She slumped. Her gaze cast down to the floor. “Let me alone, Tom,” she said. “I’m not like you. I’ve killed—I was in a war—but I would never do that.”

He was not finished. “Answer me this, Hermione, and remember, I can tell when you are lying. If I gave you the means and handed you the diary, would you destroy it? Would you annihilate a part of me?” His tone was low and soft.

Hermione looked away. “You all but annihilated a part of yourself.”

“I did no such thing, and that doesn’t answer the question. Would you?”

Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t have to answer you.”

He smirked. “You already have.”

She sneered at him. She knew this was reckless, but she had had enough. “Is that what you think? Let me remind you of something. I did destroy a part of you.”

The smirk vanished. His eyebrows narrowed.

“I took a fang from your basilisk and plunged it right into the core of one of your Horcruxes,” she continued, watching him.

He reached for his wand.

“It cried out, and I sat there and watched it _die,”_ she said cruelly. “And it made me _happy.”_

“You’re just trying to wind me up. It wasn’t me,” he bit out.

She ignored this. “And _then_ I turned to my friend and kissed him on the mouth,” she finished. She felt giddy, knowing she had surely provoked him with that.

He snapped. _“Reducto!”_ he shouted.

She was punched in the gut and flung backward against the wall. Bruised, she still reacted instantly and nonverbally. _Confringo!_ she screamed in thought. A wave of pressurized, heated air erupted from her wand.

Tom fell backward, scrambling at a desk for support, clutching his wand, his eyes wide—but no flashes of red so far. He waved his wand in return, generating a wave that Hermione recognized as a Stupefy. What was he playing at? Was he trying to _insult_ her by using such a basic spell, the one she had used on him in their first disastrous DADA duel? Was it to put her off guard? Scoffing, she blocked it nonverbally before it could hit her, and, swirling her wand in midair, responded.

_“Deprimo!”_

The spell slammed Tom to the ground hard. His eyebrows narrowed. The curse kept him pinned to the ground, but he could still shoot a spell at Hermione—

She felt it coming but could not determine what it was in time to mount an effective shield. Her _Protego_ did not deflect the second Reductor Curse well enough. She crashed through rows of fragmenting desks.

Scowling, he slashed his wand before she could react. Ropes shot from his wand toward her. They bound her arms to her sides before she could put up a shield at all.

Hermione had to act fast. She noted, quickly, that although her elbows were immobilized by the ropes, her wrists were not. And she still held her wand. She made two curving swishes and cast, _Incendio!_

A stream of yellow and orange flame shot from her wand tip and enveloped Tom’s robes before he could jump away. She took advantage of the brief time to cancel the Incarcerous hex and cast another fire spell at him before he could put out the first one entirely. This time she aimed for his head. The fire caught, and he shrieked. She had never heard him make a sound like that before, and she was grimly pleased that she had made him do so. He put the spell out immediately, but the stench of burnt hair still filled the classroom. Hermione was already readying a third consecutive spell to attack him.

Tom was angry now. He had been unwilling to use harsh curses on her, both for his own sake and because he didn’t want to hurt her, but she had no compunctions about taking advantage of his leniency and then attacking him while he was down. Time to break out something stronger. _Contundo!_ he cast fiercely.

Hermione was momentarily distracted by the flash of red in his eyes as he cast nonverbally. She did not recognize the spell from its aura leaving his wand. It hit her with the feeling of being punched by an iron fist in every part of her torso and limbs. She sat down hard on the floor, observing as red, raised spots formed everywhere that the curse had affected. Tom stormed toward her, eyes gleaming, red flashes occasionally visible in his pupils, all traces of a smirk gone from his face. He raised his wand to Disarm her.

Hermione got a curse off first, one that surprised her, given her former disdain for its pseudonymous inventor and his textbook. Before he could cast, Tom’s chest, arms, and part of his face erupted in blood. He gasped in pain and tried instinctively to cover the cut on his cheek, but blood dripped through his fingertips. He gazed at her in shock.

Hermione’s pulse thudded. Her wand arm dropped of its own accord. Had she really _done_ that? Had she just cast Snape’s Sectumsempra curse on him?

“Tom—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the classroom door slammed open, and a teacher rushed in.

“That is _enough!”_ Professor Merrythought’s voice carried across the room as she stormed toward the pair. “Miss Green! Mr. Riddle! Stop this now!”

Hermione was in a state of shock, terrified of her own power, terrified of the fact that she had just used Dark Magic to savagely maim her ex-boyfriend, terrified that she would be expelled for it—

The professor reached them and waved her wand, casting countercurses. Hermione felt some of the pain lessen, but the marks of the bruises remained. Merrythought’s gaze tightened. “Mr. Riddle, how _dare_ you—”

As she looked at Tom, the fury in her features turned to alarm. Tom was unable to get up. His skin was pale, and his wounds were still open, as if the professor’s healing had not had any effect. As Professor Merrythought and Hermione shifted their gazes to him, it seemed to occur to them both that… it _hadn’t._ Horror seeped over Hermione again as she realized that the specific countercurse had not been invented yet.

“Miss Green, what did you cast?” The professor’s voice was furious. “That was obviously not Diffindo. Did you use a Dark curse too?” The accusing tone of the question implied that she knew the answer.

Hermione could not see any way out of it. This woman was, after all, the school’s authority on the subject, and she was a legitimate expert, unlike several of the one-year wonders in her time. She nodded meekly. “Professor, I—”

The professor glared ferociously before turning her full attention to Tom. Nonverbally she began casting healing spells while swirling her wand elegantly in a small figure-eight pattern. The ugly wounds closed, stopping the bleeding, but the skin did not heal. Hermione realized dimly that there must still be methods of preventing swift death from such curses, even though the specific countercurse was not developed yet. Tom heaved a deep breath.

“I am extremely disappointed in you both,” the professor said severely. “It is no secret to me that you have had some sort of adolescent falling-out, but hurting each other with Dark curses is not the way to deal with your personal problems.” She scowled at them. “Seventy points from Slytherin, and you’re lucky that’s not apiece. Both of you, to the Hospital Wing. Miss Green, you had best explain to the Healer what you did so that he can employ measures to prevent scarring.” Merrythought frowned deeply at both of them once more. “And if I hear of the two of you continuing your fight on the way, it will be detention till the end of the year.”

* * *

As she walked to the Hospital Wing, the shock, horror, and—yes—fear of what she’d done had mostly passed for Hermione. Other thoughts were taking their place. _It isn’t fair,_ she thought, seething again. _I’m getting scolded for using Dark Magic, while he—_ It was so unjust, so outrageous and _absurd,_ really, that she could not even complete the thought.

 _“Adolescent falling-out” indeed! Actually, Professor, I’m angry at everyone’s favorite student because I watched him kill a top Ministry official and create the Darkest type of magical artifact in existence._ She cast a baleful glare at Tom, who was still pale, limping, silent, and angry as he walked beside her.

Even worse, Tom was right about one thing. She could not destroy the diary. She could not even tell an authority figure about it, since that would lead to the destruction of the diary. It was a part of him, and for all her determination to see him as Voldemort at first, that emotional reaction had passed, and he was still Tom. Seeing him bleed had reminded her, in an awful way, of how human he was. She wondered how she could have changed so utterly as to refuse to destroy a Horcrux, in fact to protect it. She marveled at that, but she supposed it was the culmination of gradually keeping ever bigger and darker secrets for him.

She certainly did not want to kill him. There would be absolutely nothing and no one for her if she did that. Her home—her original timeline—was gone, and if he died, he would be too. What she wanted was for there to be a spell that would force the part of him out of the book and back where it belonged. Back to where it had been when they had first kissed—and he had protected her with the Fidelius Charm—and they had slept together. But she knew there was no such spell.

She brooded and fumed until Tom stopped halfway to the infirmary, making her almost walk into him. He proceeded to glare at Hermione, as if his pride demanded it.

“Did you mean that?”

“Mean what?”

“You know what.”

“I did destroy one. And no, it wasn’t really you,” she added wearily.

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

Hermione suddenly felt tears spring to her eyes. “No, you were right,” she whispered. “I couldn’t.”

His face relaxed a bit. “Then—”

“That doesn’t mean I want to talk.”

He stared at her. “Fine. But don’t think I’ve changed my mind about anything.”

She did not have the spirit to argue.


	17. A Fog of Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you for the support and strong response! I've gone over the remainder of my outline, and you'll notice that the total chapter estimate has increased by one with this update. And in this chapter, one ongoing question finally gets answered definitively, though it is not the biggest one.

Before they reached the ward, Tom stood back and demanded that Hermione go on alone first. When he did show up, the cuts on his face and neck were gone, and he was wincing and out of breath. She supposed he must have used Dark healing on himself. _Naturally, he wouldn’t let himself be scarred in places people would see,_ she thought, _not after seeing himself in my memories as something resembling an Inferius. Looks like all I did by showing him that was appeal to his vanity_. She wondered briefly why he wouldn’t have cast the spell on every Sectumsempra wound on his body, but if it was draining—as it appeared to be—he probably couldn’t.

Healer Smythe was able to repair the curse damage that Hermione and Tom had inflicted upon each other. Scowling and shaking his head, he cast spells on them to lift the cuts and bruises, and then he followed with a round of potions.

“I hope I don’t see either of you in here again,” he scolded. “Immensely talented, both of you. Do try to resolve your personal issues in a more… _productive_ manner next time.”

_“Personal issues” again,_ Hermione thought. _They really think this is the same type of teen romantic conflict as—as what led to my casting a flock of conjured birds at Ron, or inviting Cormac McLaggen to the Christmas party. They have no idea._ But of course no one in the school would know what Tom had actually been up to—and if she did tell anyone, the only person who would probably believe her was Dumbledore. And possibly Slughorn, given the _talk_ that he’d had with Tom the previous year.

_I do not want to tell Dumbledore._

A part of her conscience told her that the right thing to do was to turn in a murderer, no matter how morally repulsive the victim was, or what he had planned to do—or already done. Vigilante justice was no justice at all, a faint part of her mind whispered, and tearing apart one’s soul was manifestly wrong. The funny thing was, she no longer believed her own whisperings about vigilante justice. The final four years of her magical education in the 1990s had gradually lifted that thought right out of her head. Sometimes vigilante justice was the only possible kind. Black had been intending to frame her as a foreign spy. Wasn’t it just _stupid_ to allow that to happen merely to avoid vigilantism?

Hermione was not sure what drove her to do it, but after being released from the infirmary that afternoon, she headed down the many flights of stairs and trudged heavily toward a certain girls’ bathroom.

The first thing she noticed was that it was not out of order, but merely was not being used at the moment. There was no telltale sign of Myrtle, no ghostly weeping or complaining.

_Maybe she’s out haunting Olive Hornby,_ Hermione thought as she slipped into the bathroom stall that Myrtle had inhabited in her own time. _Maybe the Ministry hasn’t banished her to the school yet._ It shouldn’t have been by any rational consideration, but it was somehow a disappointment that the ghost was not here.

_Maybe I just wanted to see someone who was definitely an innocent victim of Tom,_ Hermione thought. _Maybe I just wanted someone else to push me into—_

Hermione could not finish the thought in words, but she knew how she would have ended it. It would not have been “turning him in.” It would have been “betraying him.”

What did that _mean?_

She locked the bathroom door, closed the toilet lid, and sat down. She put her face in her hands and started to cry. _I just wanted to be fair to him, but I built myself an unreal version of him and fell in love with that,_ she thought unhappily. _Now I’m stuck with the reality. He won’t let me go… and if I make myself an enemy of his, it won’t end well for me._

Hermione suddenly heard the bathroom door creak open. She sniffled and tried to suppress the telltale signs of weeping, so that whoever this was would not know.

_“Colloportus,”_ said a voice—a _male_ voice. A very familiar voice.

_Oh my God, he is not doing this again. He is_ not.

Hermione’s melancholy curdled into rage and betrayal. She was not sure whether Tom knew that she was in here, but the dark train of her thoughts had still led to a single conclusion about what he was doing in this girls’ bathroom, and what his ultimate goal was. She stormed off the toilet seat, slammed open the stall door, and emerged.

Sure enough, Tom was standing by the door, wand in hand. He stared back at Hermione, clearly shocked at the degree of rage evident in her features. “Hermione, what on—”

“How dare you!” she shrieked. She drew her wand and directed it at him. “How _dare_ you! Listen to me, Riddle, I don’t care if you do have a Horcrux—”

Alarm spread over his features. He whipped his head back to the door. _“Muffliato,”_ he cast. “Do you _want_ the teachers to hear you?” he shouted back.

“Maybe you can shrug off the Killing Curse, but it definitely won’t help keep your body alive if I use a curse that shreds you to pieces, and I swear to you, I _will_ do that before I let you set your _Mudblood_ -killing basilisk on me!”

He was shocked. His eyes widened. “Hermione, I would _never_ do that to you!”

“Don’t lie!” she raged. “This is the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. What else could you be doing in here?”

“I just wanted to try talking again! There are a lot of things I wanted to tell you that night that I never got to. I saw that you were in here for a long time—”

“Saw me walk in, did you?” she taunted. “Except that no, you didn’t, because you were in the Hospital Wing when I left, and you didn’t follow me.”

He hesitated.

“How did you know I was in here?” she demanded.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

He paused for a moment, then reached into his robe pocket and withdrew a piece of parchment. He held it out to her with an impassive look on his face.

Gingerly Hermione stepped over and gazed at it. It was a two-column list. The first column contained people’s names. She saw Dumbledore, Slughorn, the other teachers… then beneath that, the names of Roland Lestrange, Vincent Rosier, the remainder of his Knights of Walpurgis… and her own name. The second list was a description of a location in the castle. Most of the Knights’ names were matched with the words “Slytherin common room” or “Slytherin boys’ dormitory.”

It was similar, she realized, to the Marauder’s Map and the Weasley family clock. It used the same magical tracking spells, except that it did not have a map and focused on specific people whom the caster wished to—

“You’re _stalking_ me?”

He scowled. “I’m keeping track of where you are. There are still people who have it in for you.”

“In other words, you’re stalking me,” she said. “I guess that’s how you knew I was in the hall that day when you were impersonating Rosier. I’m—no, I’m not astonished at all, on second thought. You really do think you own me.”

He put the parchment up and frowned. “I don’t even know what you mean by that. You’re not my house-elf—”

Hermione hissed.

“—but I _do_ regard you as mine. Not my property, but _mine._ I’m sorry if you can’t see the difference,” he said snidely. “That is why I would never—God, Hermione, how could you even think I would set the basilisk on you? I just wish you would bloody let me _talk.”_

Hermione’s sense of betrayal was fading now that she knew he was not opening the Chamber of Secrets again, but she was still angry. “I really don’t feel like talking to you at the moment, Riddle,” she said. She headed to the door, removed the locking spell, and opened it. “Later. Obviously, you’ll know exactly where to find me anytime.”

* * *

_He will not let me go,_ she thought again, pacing around the halls. _Even if I found a way to get back to my own time, he would do it too and follow me. The only way I could get away from him is to betray him and make him want to—_

She could not complete that thought.

_He is going to challenge Grindelwald,_ she thought. _He’s going to fight for the Elder Wand, and he might win._

She wondered, for a moment, about that, and about what she had yelled at him in the bathroom. What would happen if Tom did take the Killing Curse? In her time, Voldemort lost his body when his own curse backfired on him as he attempted to kill baby Harry, but that had been a unique situation. The fact that his tattered soul had blown apart from being pushed to the limit could have also been a factor, as well as Lily Potter’s sacrificial magic. In fact, _that_ was probably the salient point. For Harry to survive the encounter, Voldemort _couldn’t_ have retained a body, or he would have just tried again. In normal circumstances, a Killing Curse left its victim pristine and undamaged—albeit dead.

No, Tom’s soul— _what was left of it,_ she thought darkly—might be briefly knocked out, but he had not pushed it to the point of pieces flying out of his body of their own accord, so if he took a Killing Curse in his duel, he could possess his body again and restart everything. It would be an immediate, instinctive action to take in that situation. He would be on his feet in no time.

_Then there is no “might win” about it. Unless Grindelwald disables him physically, he will win. Tom will get the Elder Wand._

Was that bad or good? Hermione was not sure. It wasn’t the same thing as Voldemort getting the Elder Wand, to be sure, and she could not say she was pleased with what Dumbledore would do—had done—with the prestige and power he gained from the duel in her timeline. But she was no longer sure what she really thought about Tom becoming politically powerful in a legitimate arena. It was better than becoming Voldemort, but was it what was best for the wizarding world?

Hermione decided that she had to give the original timeline one last chance. She gathered her courage and headed toward the Deputy Headmaster’s office.

Dumbledore looked tired and unhappy when she came in, and she almost regretted the visit, but she was committed. She sat down opposite him and gazed at the desktop.

“Professor, there’s something I need to tell you.”

He looked up at her and waited.

She took a deep breath. “Last October, at the first Hogsmeade weekend—that day that I went missing….” She trailed off.

“Yes?” he said gently.

“I wasn’t lying in the woods after a prank. I’m—I’m sorry, Professor. I was abducted by Grindelwald’s henchmen,” she burst out. “I met him in a castle somewhere. It might have been his private quarters at Nurmengard; I don’t know. He said he knew I wasn’t actually related to you. I told him nothing… but he did make me an offer to be his spy. I refused, of course… but it did happen.” She glanced down at her lap.

Dumbledore did not look surprised. “I am glad that you told me this, Miss Green,” he said quietly.

Hermione paused again. This jaundiced response was… surprising, and yet not. Because there was the possibility—

“Professor, did you know he would try that?”

Dumbledore understood what she was really asking. He removed his half-moon spectacles, closed his eyes, and sighed. “Yes, Miss Green, I did,” he answered, opening his eyes again. “And yes, I also meant for him to.”

She had suspected it, she had feared it, and in a way, she had known it for months, but tears still sprang to the corners of her eyes at the confirmation. “How could you do that?” she whispered. She would not look at his face.

He sighed again. “Gellert would not have harmed you. Indeed, he _didn’t_ harm you.”

“How could you have known?” she exclaimed. “He’s responsible for hundreds of deaths!”

“He is responsible for hundreds of deaths of people who fought him in a war. Yes, he started the war, but part of his message is that civilian wizards and witches aren't safe, so he has been careful not to undermine that with his own actions. And he has a certain soft spot, I believe, for young people. I think it must have come about from the terrible events that summer with my brother and sister. This is why, when you did not report the meeting to me, I feared that he had successfully enlisted you, and then why it crossed my mind that he might have been the one to send you back in time in the first place—even unbeknownst to you at the time, in fact. That Fawkes did it rules out any involvement from him, of course, but I did worry.”

“I don’t understand why you had to use me as bait at all, though,” she said unhappily.

Sadness was in Dumbledore’s eyes. He waited a moment before speaking, and when he did speak, his voice was full of weariness. “For months people have been asking me to duel Gellert Grindelwald,” he said. “However, I know what will happen if I do. It will result in a degree of power and importance that I do not desire, and which I do not think I should have, considering my poor judgment that summer. In fact, I do believe that those best suited to power are those who do not want it.”

_I don’t believe that at all,_ Hermione thought. _It sounds nice, but it doesn’t really make sense. I want some policy influence. I don’t think that means I don’t deserve it._

“These requests come mainly from people in the higher echelons of the Ministry, so they do not understand why I would think that way. However, I understand that Grindelwald must go, and it was my hope that if the inevitable duel with him occurred in defense of a student, there would be no such calls for accolades and power. I would have been acting as a teacher, not a political figure.”

Hermione suddenly remembered something Tom had once said. _“He’ll do it only to save one of his students as his duty as Deputy Headmaster.”_

Another wave of tears hit. He was right. His assessment was absolutely right. The summer of 1899 had thoroughly shaken Dumbledore’s faith in himself, and this was the result: a man who distrusted himself, and distrusted the idea of political ambition, so much that he would not even want the responsibility of rejection. Who, instead, would try to engineer a situation in which he did not even have the _opportunity_ to accrue political power—at least, open political power, for she knew very well that he would accept behind-the-scenes influence. It _was_ hypocritical. Tom was right about that too. She stood up from her chair, eyes wide, teary, and bloodshot.

“I’m sorry,” Dumbledore said. “I truly am.”

“I wish I hadn’t asked,” she whispered.

Dumbledore looked sad. “I wish I hadn’t done it,” he admitted. “It was wrong of me to separate Mr. Riddle from you that day. Does he know about the meeting?”

Hermione nodded.

He looked uncertain about what he was about to say, but he continued anyway. “I hesitate to mention this, and you have every right to tell me that it is none of my business, but… I cannot help but notice that you and he are no longer, ah, on the same terms as before.”

Hermione snapped up her head, tears vanishing.

“Again, you have every right to tell me to stay out of it… but I confess myself somewhat… relieved. Mr. Riddle has been a source of concern to me for quite some time, and I think it a good thing for him not to have something that he wants.”

Hermione’s mouth opened in astonishment. This was _incredibly_ inappropriate. Whatever Tom had already done, Dumbledore could not prove it, and he was still Tom’s _teacher._

“I am not telling you that you should never reconcile with him, of course. That is your personal decision. And of course, you indicated that you were not fond of him in your original timeline—”

“The timeline is different now,” Hermione said quietly.

“Of course,” Dumbledore agreed, “which is why I would like you to see something that is true in both the future you knew and the future that you are helping to make happen right now. It relates to Mr. Riddle.” He got up from his desk, opened a cabinet, and fiddled with flasks on the shelves.

_Memories,_ Hermione realized. She could see the edge of a Pensieve behind the open doors.

“And once more, you can yell at me afterward, or throw this at the floor if you wish,” he said with a smile, selecting a single memory. “I won’t deduct House points or do anything else, since this is not school business, strictly speaking.” He emptied the memory into the basin as Hermione gingerly walked over.

It was a memory of a young Tom in a dingy, unwelcoming Muggle orphanage. He was sullen and bitter, and intensely distrustful of Dumbledore when the latter came to give him his Hogwarts letter and inform him that he was a wizard. By the end of the interview, Hermione observed that the distrust was mutual.

_He was eleven years old,_ she thought dully. _A child. So he bullied some of the kids—probably it was mutual; children were certainly horrible to me in Muggle school—and he stole their things. It was wrong, of course, but not uncommon. Children do that. In a place like that, he probably never had anything truly his own. He was still a child, and this was his first introduction to the wizarding world: being told, once again, that people did not trust him and would keep an eye on him._

When the memory was finished, Hermione withdrew from the Pensieve and found herself facing a grim-looking Albus Dumbledore.

“I did not show you this to prejudice you against him,” he said heavily, “but merely to… inform you of some aspects of his personality that you should be aware of if you do reconcile with him. In particular, the fact that he was so eager, even at such a young age, to believe himself special and important.”

Hermione stared back. _This_ was not what she had expected Dumbledore to say.

“I have delivered letters to many Muggle-raised students as Deputy Headmaster,” Dumbledore said. “All of them have been delighted to learn of the existence of magic, but most of them have disbelieved it until it is demonstrated to them. They have not been so determined as young Mr. Riddle was to believe that they, themselves, were different—and better—than the people around them, nor have they been able to consciously control their magical abilities.”

“Are you saying it is wrong that he could control his abilities?” she asked, confused as to where he was going with this. Of course Tom would have been pleased to learn that he was a wizard and would consider himself special since he could do something that no one else he knew could do. It only seemed natural to her.

Dumbledore looked very weary. “The trouble is that in this political climate, it’s… worrisome… whenever that mentality develops. The mentality, I should clarify, that having magic makes one special and separate. And it is also worrisome when an untrained wizard, as he was at the time, is already able to control magic and use it to dominate Muggles around him. I saw that mindset in young Gellert Grindelwald. I have not wished to believe that the mindset is instinctive to some people; I have hoped that it must be carefully taught, but for Mr. Riddle to have developed it without any influence from elements in the wizarding world that espouse it is unsettling to me.”

“Professor,” Hermione said, astonished and horrified, “if you remember, I myself am actually Muggle-born. When I received my letter, my reaction was… not unlike Tom’s in that one way.”

Dumbledore paused and regarded her curiously.

“I didn’t know it was _magic,_ of course—just as he didn’t—but I knew that strange things happened to me, things that I could apparently do. I wasn’t unobservant, Professor. I’ve always been extremely observant, if I may say so. I knew something was different—and it _is_ different. It’s a talent. I don’t think it’s wrong to take pride in one’s talents.” She felt tears in her eyes once again, to her dismay, but this was such a profoundly moving memory that she could not help it. “I was always ‘strange’ to my Muggle schoolmates. I knew I didn’t fit in. And learning that there was a whole world for people like me—” She broke off.

Dumbledore looked intently at her for a while. Finally he answered, “I cannot pretend to know what it is like for a child raised exclusively in the Muggle world to learn for the first time about magic. You may be right.”

“That orphanage looked appalling,” she said. “You don’t know how the other children treated him. I’m sure they were frightened of him, but my Muggle classmates were frightened of me too. It didn’t stop them from saying awful things about me. People lash out when they are afraid.” _Just like the group of Muggle boys did to your sister,_ she thought.

“You may be right,” Dumbledore repeated.

“Learning that he was a wizard was the most important event of Tom’s life,” Hermione said confidently. “He told me that himself. It meant a _place_ for him. It meant a future for him as something other than a servant or mine worker. In the Muggle world, they wouldn’t have cared how brilliant he was. He never would have received an invitation to an elite Muggle academy. He _was_ different, he recognized that he was different, and since he didn’t know any other wizards, he saw that difference as special and unique. Then when he entered the wizarding world, he learned that he was _still_ exceptional even among wizards. It’s not _political._ It’s just the truth. And it’s the truth that as long as wizarding children are born to—or raised among—Muggles, learning about magic will mean that to them.”

Dumbledore sat down at his desk. He sighed, removed his spectacles again, and rubbed his forehead. Hermione stood on the other side, regarding him patiently, waiting to see what he would say.

“I apologize, Miss Green, for my interference. It is possible—nay, maybe even probable—that you are entirely correct, and this is simply the gut reaction of a man who got swept up in something that was definitely political, and was badly burned by a wizard who thought himself better than any Muggle. I confess that when I first met young Mr. Riddle and witnessed that response to being told about magic, it troubled me, but my reaction was emotional rather than rational. Then when he came to Hogwarts and proceeded to charm everyone… well, it reminded me of Gellert.”

“There are similarities between them,” Hermione admitted quietly. “But this—Professor, I am _not_ saying that there is no reason to disapprove of anything Tom Riddle has ever said or done.” _Far from it,_ she thought wryly. “But this memory you showed me—I can’t see it the way you do. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I understand. Good luck, Miss Green.”

* * *

Hermione paced around the Room of Requirement, which was still sealed against Tom—although she knew he could probably see where she was, or deduce it, at least, if his “watch list” displayed a blank when she was in there. She thought about the conversation she had just had with Dumbledore.

It was very disappointing that his attitude to Tom had been tainted from literally the very first day by his mental associations with Gellert Grindelwald. If Dumbledore had not sent the message to Tom that he distrusted and disliked him, who knew what might have happened? Very little might have been different, of course; Tom still would have been placed in Slytherin, still would have been subjected to the prejudices and rejection of his classmates, and still might have felt that he had to resort to intimidation and the Dark Arts. But Hermione couldn’t be _certain_ of that last. Dumbledore had closed himself to Tom from the start and resolved to “watch him” rather than reach out to him.

_And if he gets credit for defeating Grindelwald, he’ll “watch” Tom for years as the wizarding world goes to hell,_ Hermione thought grimly. _Except when he’s promoting people like Septimus Weasley, suppressing information, and trying to fight blood purity ideology by portraying Muggles as helpless, which only plays right into their hands._

She slumped into her armchair and sighed. What was the alternative? _Tom himself,_ her brain supplied oh-so-helpfully. _Tom who still thinks he should rule over Muggles, who murders threats to himself—which may someday include political threats—and oh yes, who made a Horcrux right in front of me and thought I’d be honored to see it._

She rubbed her eyes.

_Dumbledore set me up. He used me to try to get Grindelwald. He assumed, too, that it wouldn’t cross my mind that he was involved with it, that of course I wouldn’t figure it out. He concluded that I didn’t tell him about the meeting because I had accepted Grindelwald’s offer rather than because I suspected and distrusted him. Tom, however, has only wanted to protect me. Even if I disagreed with_ what _he did._

_Tom thinks he should rule over Muggles,_ she thought again. _He isn’t all that far removed from Grindelwald’s ideology himself. The main difference seems to be that he doesn’t want to abolish the Statute of Secrecy and wants to obtain power legitimately._

_We do need to change. I’ve said before that we need to open up to the Muggle world more, rather than doing things like proscribing the use of magic on certain arbitrary objects and blinkering ourselves to Muggle culture so thoroughly that we don’t even know how to dress in the outside world, let alone anything about how far they have advanced._

_I was fortunate. My parents accepted magic. What happens to Muggle-born kids whose families would consider them demon-possessed, or otherwise some sort of freak—like the Dursleys thought of Harry? Harry had to be brought into the wizarding world, because Dumbledore needed his “hero” to solve his problem for him, but what about less important Muggle-raised wizard children whose families don’t want them to go to Hogwarts? Would he lift a finger for any of them, or would his belief that familial love is paramount, no matter how dysfunctional and destructive that family may be—again the Dursleys, and his own mother’s appalling treatment of his sister, denying her Healing—would that belief rule his actions?_

Hermione had a nasty suspicion that she knew the answer.

_Grindelwald doesn’t like that,_ her brain supplied. _He proposed a solution. He’s going to lose, though. He couldn’t have won anyway. He is violent, and he wants to overturn the Statute of Secrecy. We can’t do that. We are hopelessly outnumbered. But we can amend it. And if Tom doesn’t hate Muggle-borns…._

She got up from the chair. All of a sudden she just wanted to take her bath and go to bed. This was too much for her. At the back of her mind she knew what she would decide—had already decided—but she was not prepared to face it.

* * *

The next day was a Saturday, but Hermione did not feel like going to Hogsmeade. She walked wearily down to the breakfast table and took her newspaper from the morning owl post with resignation.

“Ministry Inquiry Quickly Confirms Black’s Death Caused by Cursed Objects,” blared the lead headline.

Hermione hated herself for it, but the only emotion she felt was relief.

There was no point in reading the article text, she figured, since she knew it was wrong. She skimmed it. It was a summary of the investigation, which appeared to have been conducted perfunctorily, as a bureaucratic imperative, rather than as a serious matter. It appeared that DMLE flunkies had merely examined the necklace and spinning Dark instrument that Tom had placed near Pollux Black’s body and determined that they carried, respectively, a lethal curse that would cause intense pain before death, and a curse that could shrivel his arm.

Then one paragraph in the article caught her eye.

 

_Mr. Arcturus Black, the cousin of the late Pollux Black, has declared that he does not believe that his cousin’s death was an accident, though he gives no reasons for disbelieving the results of the investigation. Mr. Septimus Weasley, a cousin by marriage of both Blacks, states that Mr. Black is grieving and should not be held accountable for statements made in shock._

 

“I’m sure that went over well,” Hermione muttered to herself. “And wasn’t she blasted off the tapestry for marrying him?” She was pretty sure that this was what Sirius had said, back in her old time. Claiming the connection likely irked Arcturus Black more than anything else. She really hoped that Arcturus would continue to rave, though, if it meant that he would be discredited as a legitimate political player.

“Replacement Candidates Named!” was the second headline. Hermione did read this article fully.

It turned out that there were three potential contenders to replace Black. As she had expected, Septimus Weasley was one. He was again posturing for his legislation to be passed, and he now claimed—or, at least, the _Prophet_ said he claimed—the support of Dumbledore for the position.

 

_Additionally, Mr. Black has declared his support for Faustus Yaxley of the Improper Use of Magic Office. Like Weasley, Yaxley is a five-year employee of the Ministry. Yaxley is known to oppose Weasley’s legislation. The final candidate for the Head of Magical Law Enforcement is thirty-year Department veteran Robert “Bob” Ogden, currently Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol._

 

Hermione was almost positive that she had heard the name of Bob Ogden before, from Harry, she was reasonably certain, but she could not say in what context. She opened the newspaper and glanced at page two.

“Nurmengard Prison Liberated! Grindelwald Retreats to Heavily Fortified Family Home!”

Hermione glanced down the Slytherin table. Tom was there, having his coffee and reading the newspaper himself.

She took a deep breath and stood up. He noticed and smirked as she made her way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this chapter probably makes clear, I really, really dislike Dumbledore’s commentary in HBP about the memory of telling Tom that he is a wizard, and his ex post facto extrapolations of what dreadfully sinister things it supposedly implies that a very intelligent, observant child who has a great talent—and who is alone in the world—would know about the talent, take pride in it, and consider himself special and apart because of it. As I said in a previous chapter’s notes, I’m not going for evil!Dumbledore, but I have been gradually building up to a Dumbledore that Hermione cannot throw her support to, and here we are.


	18. Mastery and Puppetmastery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big chapter here, guys, in two ways. Both pivotal and (for this fic) long.

“This conversation needs to be private,” Tom said, standing up as she approached.

“Agreed,” Hermione said.

They left the Great Hall side by side, not touching, but that tiny detail did not prevent the early-riser student body from starting up the storm of gossip. Tom and Hermione disdainfully ignored it as they swept to the Room of Requirement.

“I really wish we could create Portkeys to this place,” Tom grumbled as he sat down.

The normalcy of humor made Hermione laugh—and then she felt a pang for what had been.

Tom looked up at her and spread his newspaper on the table between the armchairs. “Well. You saw it too.”

“‘Despite the fall of his stronghold, Grindelwald swears that he will continue to direct the remains of his movement from the security of his family estate,’” Hermione read aloud. She gazed at him. “You still mean to do it?”

“Of course.” He stretched back in the armchair. “Did you read the front page? They’re behaving exactly as I expected. Weasley is such a hypocrite, pretending that he cares nothing about wizarding family, but he’s more than happy to try to use it for political advantage—and he isn’t even _good_ at it. And he’s cravenly promoting that stupid bill of his, trying to use that to vault into a position he’s utterly unqualified for. Meanwhile Black looks like a hysterical fool and conspiracy theorist, and his cousin looks like the bumbling incompetent he was, and war news gets pushed to page two. It’s delicious.” He grinned.

“Never mind that Black is _correct,”_ Hermione said coldly.

“Nobody knows that except the two people who are in this room,” Tom said with a shrug. “And I know you’re not against me, not even on that topic.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at his arrogance. “Do you _know_ that, or are you just assuming?”

“I _know._ You admitted you couldn’t destroy it. Besides, why else would you have come up to me when you have been—well, ‘uncivil’ is putting it mildly, I’d say. And why would I still be here, instead of en route to Azkaban, after you were closeted with Dumbledore for so long yesterday—unless you didn’t tell him?”

Hermione glared at him. “Yes, I know that you watch me on that list of yours. I went to tell him about the time Grindelwald abducted me.”

Tom looked at her expectantly. “And?”

She looked down. “You were correct. He used me as bait. He admitted it.”

“Is that why you decided against letting him have the Elder Wand and chose me instead?” His tone was nervous.

“Not exactly,” she said, wondering why he seemed anxious. “I’d already accepted that it was probably the case. What made up my mind for me was something else entirely.” She hesitated; Tom would _not_ like hearing about the memory, but she did need to say something. “He doesn’t trust anyone who actively desires power or regards magic as special—or, apparently, is exceptionally talented and aware of it. Except for himself.”

“Me, in other words,” Tom said darkly. “He said things about me.”

Hermione nodded.

Tom burst into a smirk. “And that is what turned you against him, the fact that he doesn’t like me. That… _begins_ to make up for your attitude that one night.”

She scowled, not particularly wanting to be reminded of “that one night” or anything relating to it. “I have made a pragmatic decision that you should defeat Grindelwald and gain influence from it because your views seem the most realistic of the current options… and because if you don’t satisfy your desire for power productively, I know what you’ll do. That’s all there is to it.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Hermione,” he said, still wearing that smirk.

She glared.

“Now, with that said… I have a reason for wanting this talk to be private.”

“Are you finally going to tell me something important?”

He gave her a serious look. “I intended to tell you _everything_ that night, before you rejected me… but yes. I’m going to tell you something _very_ important.”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him.

He took a deep breath. “The day after Grindelwald abducted you, I… initiated communication with him. I was gone for most of the day, if you recall. That’s what I was doing.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. Her mouth opened. “You….” she whispered. “All this time… _you_ have been his informant? You deceitful _snake—”_ Her lips twisted, and she made to stand up.

“Hermione, _please hear me out,”_ he ground out. “You said you’d listen.”

“You had better have a _damn_ good reason,” she snarled. “Seems that your murder of Pollux Black was more to protect yourself from the truth than anything else.”

Tom glared angrily at her. “That prick had no actual evidence, for one, and it was to protect _you_ from him as well, you should recall. And are you going to let me talk, or will I have to use a Silencio again?” His fingers twitched on his wand, as if he wanted to anyway.

“Don’t you even think about it.” She glared back. “All right. Explain yourself. And make it good, Riddle. I was _tortured_ over this.”

“I have been passing him information about the families of my Knights,” he said. “Is that really so awful? You know what they think. You know that they would torture you for fun if they knew your ancestry. That’s who I informed on. Are you going to defend them?”

“This is still a war, and you have been an agent for the enemy.”

“The _enemy?”_ Tom said incredulously. “You said yourself that my views—which aren’t _that_ different from his, as you must know—were realistic and pragmatic.”

She fell silent. That _was_ exactly what she had decided the day before. “Exactly what type of information did you pass?” she asked suspiciously. “What did you cause to happen?”

“There was one big thing. Lestrange… I think it was the day you and I went to the Three Broomsticks and one of Grindelwald’s owls arrived. He used code, of course.”

“I remember that,” Hermione said. She decided not to tell Tom that she had spied on him and noticed the name “Lestrange” on his return parchment.

“Well, I had just heard the idiot boasting about some people his father knows in France who were going to have Beauxbatons ban ‘Mudbloods.’ He just couldn’t help himself, and I got the names out of him and passed it on. They were… removed soon.”

“By ‘removed,’ I assume you mean assassinated,” she said coldly.

“Is that such a terrible thing?” Tom said. “You’re Muggle-born. I did a good deed.” He smirked. “Unusual, isn’t it? You should be proud of me.”

Hermione frowned at him. “Is that it? You reported on the British pureblood fanatics. Anything else?”

Tom stared levelly at her. “For one, I told Grindelwald that you were a time-traveler. No, I did not give him any details, just that it was an accident. I even lied about how far in the future you had come from. That, incidentally, is why he never contacted you again. Didn’t you ever wonder about that?”

Hermione had to admit that she had not. So much else had happened. “So… you did it to _protect_ me?” she said.

“In part,” he hedged.

“What was the other part? You didn’t even like me then. Why did you really do it?”

“Initially, it was to find out his weaknesses,” Tom said. “I had an idea briefly of taking over his movement, because yes, I do agree with a lot of what he has to say. That did not last long. It coincided, by the way, with the time that you showed your memories to me. Of what I—was. Would have become. That… changed my plans somewhat. I decided that revolutionary violence wasn’t a good idea, and no more was ending the Statute of Secrecy.”

“And this ‘association’ is how you learned that he has the Elder Wand.”

“Obviously.”

“And decided that you wanted it.”

“Of course I wanted it.” He twisted the ring on his finger. “He… we made a deal. I didn’t know what this ring was. I actually intended to turn it into a Horcrux before I decided to stop with one and use my most important diary for it.”

Hermione’s heart thudded for a moment at that admission, already unspoken but now openly acknowledged, but she would not let him see. “I suppose it’s safe to assume that he doesn’t know the first thing about _that,”_ she spat.

“I damn well hope not, or there goes my element of surprise.” Tom scowled for a moment. “I want you to keep it,” he said. “It is safest in this room. I could secure it in my dormitory, of course, but this room is protected much better.” He gazed at her.

Hermione closed her eyes. “All right, Tom,” she said in defeated tones. “I’ll keep it.”

Tom released his breath in a whoosh. “Anyway, he told me what the ring was, and we made a deal. ‘When’ he won,” he continued with a scoff, “I would turn it over to him in exchange for the assurance that I would be what he wanted Dumbledore to be once, his most trusted associate and partner in ruling. I agreed, knowing very well that he would not win. So I’m going to take the wand. Seems fair, wouldn’t you agree?” He smirked again.

Hermione’s hands were trembling. “Tom, you lied to me about this for a long time.”

He looked guilty for a moment, but it passed, to be replaced with a mask of pride. “Frankly, Hermione, I wasn’t sure how much I could trust you then. Not _you_ exactly, but your mind. You could Occlumens me, but you still seemed to be deciding on your loyalties, and I was sure Dumbledore knew more about your abduction from Hogsmeade than he had any right to. If he questioned you….” He trailed off.

Hermione remembered the time that Dumbledore had forced Legilimency on her. Yes, that could have gone very badly if she had been harboring any more incriminating secrets than those she did.

“I regret being dishonest with you,” he said in a clipped tone.

For a moment a horrible memory filled Hermione’s mind, the memory of a white-faced snake-man telling Severus Snape, _“I regret it.”_ But no—this was actually sincere, and he did regret something more than the loss of what he believed was a useful tool. It was just very hard for him to offer an apology.

“I… think I understand,” she finally said. “I can’t say I’m happy, but I understand. This war is much less black and white than I thought for a long time.”

He looked relieved. “We’re all right, then?”

“No, Tom, we’re not ‘all right.’ If I am going to ally with you”—she frowned at the patronizing smirk that formed on his face at the word—“then you have to promise me that you won’t lie about big things like this again.”

Tom stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned aside so he wasn’t looking at her as he spoke. “I don’t understand why you would have to ask that,” he said abruptly. “I mean, seriously, Hermione, I just told you something that by itself could get me put into Azkaban. I’ve used Unforgivable Curses in front of you. I made a bloody _Horcrux_ in front of you. I really don’t see why you think I would still ‘lie about big things.’ It should be bleeding obvious I trust you, shouldn’t it?”

“If it is, why is it so hard for you to _say_ you won’t hide important things from me? I really don’t understand this, Tom. It can’t be because any such promise would be a lie. You have no difficulty lying to anyone.”

“So if I’m a liar, would you believe me if I did say it?” he said cuttingly. Hermione fell silent, and he continued. “In fact, it’s _because_ words don’t mean all that much to me that I think my actions speak louder. That said… you’re different. You’re the exception. My words to you should mean something, you’re right… so fine, I won’t hide important things from you again.”

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes briefly. If she were entirely honest with herself, she really was not happy about this revelation. Tom had fed information about his classmates’ families to Grindelwald, and while the French Lestrange associates were likely the most important fact he ever passed, there had apparently still been just enough detail that the Black associates knew there had to be a leak. And she was the most obvious possibility. Tom had attempted to protect her from the rumor, intimidating the Slytherin boys and demanding that she stay away from them, but his own espionage did keep the rumor afloat.

Or did it? She wondered if the pureblood extremists were so prejudiced that they would have continued to believe she was a spy even if there had been no indication that espionage was occurring.

There was no way to know, she realized. And she had made her decision. At least Tom had done it for purposes of his own—to learn about Grindelwald’s weaknesses and to protect her from him—rather than because he actually intended to overthrow the Ministry.

She turned to him. “I suppose you will be able to get into the family manor.”

He nodded. He was sorting through his pack, bent over. He surfaced holding his dark blue leatherbound diary. _His Horcrux,_ her mind helpfully reminded her, as if she needed it.

He held it out to her. “You read the Dark Arts book, so you know about….” He trailed off. “Hermione, I swear to you, it won’t try to possess you. Anyone else, probably, but not you. It knows you. It’s part of me, and I made it after I….”

He was staring at her with wide, pleading eyes. _Innocent eyes,_ Hermione thought, then almost laughed out loud at the irony of that thought in this specific situation.

“It had better not,” she said, gingerly accepting the book. As soon as it touched her hand, the sensation of powerful, familiar magic filled her body.

She carried it over to her nightstand and placed it in the drawer. Before she closed the drawer, she ran her thumb over the surface for a moment, feeling the pleasant sensation of the soft leather. The aura she perceived from the magic changed slightly; it felt somehow intimate… _like a friend,_ she thought. She had no idea what she thought of that, and they had business to take care of anyway, so she pushed it out of her mind. She shut the drawer and put a very powerful locking spell on it.

Hermione reached for her cloak and wand. Tom stared at her in surprise as she did.

“What are you doing?”

She turned around to look at him. “I thought you wanted to do it today.”

“I do,” he said. “I just don’t think you should be there. You aren’t protected.”

Hermione stared hard at him. “I’m going, Tom, ‘protected’ or not. Has it not occurred to you that there will be questions raised about how you, as a single student, could defeat him? Also, I’m supposed to be related to Dumbledore. It would be better if I came.”

Tom considered for a moment. “All right, but stay out of it as best you can, and if he starts targeting you instead of me, I want you to get away. Don’t do anything Gryffindor. You don’t need to try to save me.”

* * *

Grindelwald’s family manor was a gargoyle-covered Baroque monstrosity in the Rhine valley. Hermione clutched her cloak and pulled her hood over her head as she drew close to it. Waves upon waves of magic rippled off the mansion. It was as intense as the magical shielding of Hogwarts.

“Have you ever seen it?” she whispered to Tom.

He shook his hooded head. “I’ve actually only seen him once, when I first offered my services, and that was when he was at Nurmengard.”

They approached the mansion, stepping across a cobblestone pathway that led to the entrance doors. The front lawn was flanked by a few gnarled trees, but Hermione felt dreadfully exposed. She felt an irrational sense of relief when they were at the front entrance, although she knew that danger lurked inside.

Tom drew his wand and waved it over the doors. He frowned, examining the protective spells, then held open his left palm with a grimace.

“Tom, _really?”_ Hermione exclaimed as he opened a surface cut on his hand.

“I don’t know if it’ll let me in or if it’s matched to his own blood, but it should still alert him.” Tom pressed his bloody palm to the gargoyle doorknob.

Hermione gasped as a wall of flames appeared behind them, not edging forward to engulf them, but blocking them from leaving the entrance. Tom drew his hand back, healed the cut, and smiled grimly. Within a minute, someone was coming to the door. It opened to reveal a hooded guard.

“The Leader must know you. Otherwise these flames would have engulfed you as you stood here,” the guard said in an undertone.

“He does,” Tom confirmed. “We wish to see him.”

He gave their names, and at once, they were shown to a long, dark banquet hall with a high vaulted ceiling. They stood next to each other, avoiding the empty table that filled two-thirds of the room.

 _“Stay out of it,”_ Tom repeated to Hermione in a whisper. “There are wards here preventing people from Apparating in, but you can still Disapparate if you have to. He wouldn’t want to cut off that avenue of escape for himself.”

Hermione shivered and clutched her wand.

Within a few minutes, a deep clang sounded as the tall doors to the banquet hall opened. A single wizard strode through, closing the doors behind him with a flick of his wand—the Elder Wand. Hermione’s heart clenched as she looked again upon the face of Gellert Grindelwald.

“Why are you here?” Grindelwald demanded, staring at Tom with alarm. “You should not have come. It is too late. The war is lost, and you must know that. The information you gave me was very useful, and I am grateful for the good that was done with it, but you risk your own prospects by trying to help me now.” He gazed at Hermione. “And you brought her. Why?”

“I wanted to come,” Hermione spoke up. “It wasn’t his fault.”

Tom was clutching his wand and staring at Grindelwald.

“Well?” Grindelwald said.

“I know the war is lost,” Tom said in a low voice. “That is why I’m here.” In a flash, he turned his wand on Grindelwald. _“Expulso!”_

The spell was so powerful that it created a shockwave in the air, a crackle of thunder, as it careened toward Grindelwald. He reacted instantly, darting to the side and blocking the worst effects of it. He countered with a Stupefy.

Tom scoffed, easily countering it. “What do you take me for, a child? Do I have to show that I _deserve_ the Elder Wand?”

Grindelwald’s stormy face suddenly cleared. As he paused, Tom sent the same Dark bruising curse at Grindelwald that he had used on Hermione that day. Grindelwald scowled and blocked it, replying with a Petrificus Totalus.

Hermione watched from the sidelines as the two Dark wizards battled each other. Grindelwald did not aim at her once, which relieved her but also puzzled her. She _was_ a target, and it would have distracted Tom from protecting himself if he had to protect her too—or thought he did. Tom was not throwing Cruciatus or Avada Kedavra, a fact that made her happy, but she could not help but notice that he was still using much more aggressive spells against Grindelwald than Grindelwald was using on him.

Tom was noticing it too. “You know, Hermione has given me a better duel than this,” he taunted, firing a lightning spell at Grindelwald that cracked the stone in front of him.

Grindelwald did not reply, but instead hurled a Reductor Curse at Tom, which he barely put up a shield in time to block. Tom scowled. “Is that the best you have?” he snarled. He waved his wand in a complicated pattern, and the stone floor broke apart, forming a crater that surrounded Grindelwald. Walls of crumbled stone extended to the height of his shoulders.

Tom smirked and cast a spell at Grindelwald’s head. A stream of heavy chains encircled his body. Hermione could tell they extended down, though the crater walls blocked her view. Tom blasted the crater away, sending Grindelwald stumbling backward against the far wall with a clink of metal against stone.

“Well done,” Grindelwald murmured under his breath. His face did not betray anger. A faint smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

Hermione suddenly understood. And so, in that moment, did Tom.

His eyebrows quirked for a fraction of a second, but they quickly shifted back in place. Wordlessly Tom cast the spell, and the Elder Wand flew from Grindelwald’s hand into his own. He turned it over in his palm almost reverently, a faint but profoundly satisfied smile appearing on his face.

“You wanted me to have it,” he said to Grindelwald, his voice no longer hostile. He placed his yew wand in his pocket.

Grindelwald looked relieved that the wand was out of his hands, which struck Hermione as very odd. “I did—originally,” he said. “I knew I had to put up a fight, though, since mastery cannot be passed except by a demonstration of superior force or cunning.”

“But you didn’t want to hurt me,” Tom said. He smiled at the ancient wand again. “Did you decide that just now, or… before?”

“I knew a year ago that my movement was failing. That was my purpose for seeking out a protégé. None of my top officials were suitable. They were lieutenants, not visionaries. I knew that if I didn’t find someone, the most likely outcome was that Albus Dumbledore would finally duel me.” He peered at Hermione. “Is that what would otherwise have happened?”

Hermione was startled, but she suddenly remembered that Tom had told Grindelwald that she had traveled from the future. She nodded. “You would have issued an ultimatum that you would not surrender unless he did.”

“I thought so. I intended to let him have it if it came to that.”

“Then why—” Hermione began to ask.

“That outcome, while not ideal, was… acceptable to me. More acceptable than the wand falling into the hands of anonymous Ministry officials somewhere and being lost again. Albus was a friend once. But I preferred to bestow it on a successor who would put it to use, rather than merely holding it for the rest of his life because he was afraid to truly lead.”

“You do know Dumbledore,” Hermione muttered cynically. “And you know Tom as well, for that matter. He’s definitely ambitious.”

Tom smirked proudly, holding the wand, almost _petting_ it.

Grindelwald blinked. It was almost as if his brain was clearing of a long-term mental fog. “I see now that my mistake was fomenting violent revolution rather than changing things through the civil political process. Perhaps I had no other options with my… academic background. Britain is not so unstable, though, and your country has a stronger tradition of peaceful politics than mine. Reform could work if both of your factions are discredited—and you are reasonable.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t want to _discredit_ everyone else,” she mumbled. “There should be political opposition. It’s healthy.”

Tom turned to Hermione. “There will be political opposition. They aren’t going away, either set of them. We’ll just offer a third option.”

“Just a minute,” Hermione said firmly. She fingered her own wand. “I want to know exactly what we are talking about here. What policies, I mean. Because I do not support abolishing Seclusion. Muggles can be _dangerous_ and they have very deadly weapons now, and we are vastly outnumbered.”

Tom sighed heavily. “I don’t intend to push for that. You think I don’t know how dangerous Muggles can be? Still, the Statute of Secrecy was signed in the seventeenth century. It is _long_ past time for it to be modified. We need to be watching Muggle advances very closely and co-opting them with magic as soon as we can.”

“And what about Muggle-borns?” Hermione said sharply.

“What about them?” Tom countered.

Grindelwald spoke up. “My research division found proof that all Muggle-born witches and wizards must have wizard ancestry. I have this evidence in my office in the mansion here. Since the non-magical descendants of wizards are Squibs, at least one parent of a Muggle-born must technically be a Squib, though usually not a first-generation one.”

Tom nodded. “I will make sure that your people’s research is known, not destroyed. I’m sure Dumbledore did that too,” he said as a contemptuous aside to Hermione. “He wouldn’t want to emphasize ancestry as a rationale for accepting Muggle-borns, after all.”

Hermione sighed. He had a point, as he unfortunately often did. It was all very idealistic to argue that no one should care where a person’s magic came from and that one shouldn’t focus too much on one’s ancestors. But ideals sometimes clashed with the reality of human nature, and she knew what would eventually happen if this empirical explanation of—of _herself_ —did not become common knowledge among wizards.

“The families can be granted Squib status. Some family members _are_ Muggles,” he said with a sneer, “but we wouldn’t always be able to determine that.” He turned to Hermione. “Does that satisfy you?”

“It’ll do,” she muttered. She wished that Tom didn’t hate Muggles so much, because it was obvious that he was coming up with a rationalization to avoid giving wizarding-world privileges to anyone he had to consider a Muggle. Still, at least he didn’t hate Muggle- _borns_ this time, and he would grant that their families had some right to be part of the wizarding world.

“Of course,” Tom considered, almost talking to himself, “some of them are hostile to magic. They’ll have to be taken care of. Magical children belong with us.”

“Taken care of?” Hermione said sharply.

“With _mind spells,_ darling,” he drawled. “Either modify their views, or modify their memories so that they think their child is dead and place the child with a wizarding family. And… investigate their magic-friendliness right when a baby is born, I think. We know who they are. Hogwarts has that _list.”_

Hermione shuddered. This sounded extremely invasive of people’s privacy to her… but what was the right answer? Muggle-borns would continue to come into the world, and it had to be dealt with in some way. If they were kept out of the wizarding world, their magic would still exist, though it would be untrained—putting Secrecy at grave risk. The wizarding government would have to constantly monitor and clean up after them. If they were brought in, their families had to be considered. Some families would be friendly and some would not. Hermione had never met a Muggle-born in her time whose family disapproved of magic. She was reasonably sure that those children did not come to Hogwarts. That was wrong… but it seemed that Tom’s solution—Grindelwald’s solution—was the only alternative if they kept Seclusion.

“You don’t like that,” Tom said to Hermione.

She snapped her head up and faced him. “I can’t say I do, but I don’t know what the answer is,” she admitted. “I don’t like the status quo either.”

“It’s just examining their fitness to be parents to a magical child,” Tom said persuasively. “You know what Weasley is doing. That’s the current alternative to Isolationism… and it won’t work. You know it won’t work. There _has_ to be a new faction.”

Hermione sighed in resignation.

Tom turned to Grindelwald. “You said something. ‘Originally’ you wanted me to have this wand. What do you mean?”

Grindelwald gazed at Tom with concern. “I meant for you to have the wand, and it is still a better option than letting Albus have it, but I wish very much now that Miss Green had accepted my offer. That wand is dangerous to you.”

Tom sneered. “Dangerous to me, but not to her, apparently,” he repeated. “That sounds like something Dumbledore would say.”

Grindelwald continued, ignoring Tom’s cheap shot. “You have to be careful of that wand.”

“I know. I can’t let anyone get it.”

“That is not what I mean, and you know it,” Grindelwald snapped. “It is almost alive. There are some who believe it was created by Antioch Peverell, but I wonder if the Peverell brothers really did make a bargain with Death, considering how that wand behaves. It is no ordinary wand. It is certainly unbeatable, but… not in the way you think. Not in the way _I_ thought.”

“How—” Tom began.

“It doesn’t make you unbeatable in a duel. It masters _you._ That wand amplifies the parts of you that would make you easier prey for Death, and the effect increases the more you use it. It’s subtle, though. I didn’t feel it until it was very advanced.”

 _That’s why Dumbledore allowed things to spiral out of control in my timeline,_ Hermione thought suddenly. _He was already afraid of power over others after the debacle with his family and Grindelwald. Then he got the wand, and if Grindelwald told him this, he feared its power even more. It exploited that. It may have even played a trick by making him momentarily forget that the Resurrection Stone would be cursed._

Tom turned the wand over in his hands again. “I am sure I can control this wand, and I don’t see why it would be more dangerous to me than to her.”

Grindelwald did not answer for a while. Tom smirked, assured that he had won the argument.

“It is more dangerous to you because you want it to empower yourself,” Grindelwald finally said. “So did I. So did most of its previous possessors, all the way back to Antioch Peverell. If Death _did_ create it for him, then he created it to subvert that specific desire above all else. And if Peverell himself created it, he used Dark magic, which has been known to turn on people who believe themselves fully in control of it.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Noted. Thank you.” He pointed the wand at Grindelwald. “I’m sorry about this, but I’m sure you understand why I have to do it.”

Hermione’s heart sank as she realized what Tom intended. “Tom, no—”

“Stop,” Grindelwald said, panic filling his features. “It’s truly not necessary.”

Tom kept the Elder Wand directed at Grindelwald. Hermione thought she noticed a flash of red in his pupils. “I’m going to send a message to my country’s Ministry of your capture,” he said. “They’re going to arrive here, and if you are alive, you’ll be questioned at great length. That could be… _problematic_ for me.”

“I have _no_ intention of outing you as a spy!” Grindelwald exclaimed. “Why would I do that? It wouldn’t buy my own freedom, and none of my goals would be realized if I did. You are my legacy.”

“If they gave you Veritaserum, you wouldn’t have a choice. I’m truly sorry,” Tom repeated.

“No,” Hermione said, stepping forward. “There is another way.”

Tom paused and lowered his wand a notch. “What?”

“The Fidelius Charm,” she said. “If there is any written evidence, destroy it first—”

“There isn’t,” Grindelwald said. “I burned the parchments he sent me.”

“Well, good. Then we can cast the Fidelius Charm with the Secret being that Tom gathered information for you. I’ll be the Keeper. That way, you _couldn’t_ tell anyone.”

Tom lowered the Elder Wand. Something like relief spread over his features. “That… would work,” he acknowledged. “Good thinking.”

“I hope you realize what it means that I am willing to do this for you,” Hermione said severely.

Tom smirked. “Oh, I _definitely_ do.”

* * *

Somewhat later, Hermione passed by the bound guard at the estate to let Slughorn, Dippet, Dumbledore, a small team of Aurors, and the British Minister for Magic in. Tom stood by the chained figure of Grindelwald in the banquet hall, possessively holding the Elder Wand as a trophy and looking insufferably proud of himself.

Slughorn was also proud of his two favorite students. The Minister was merely excited. Dumbledore, Hermione noted, had a look of utter shame on his face.

Tom strode over to the luminaries and addressed the Minister, immediately giving a rather modified narrative of breaking down magical wards with Hermione and then dueling Grindelwald. Hermione stood apart, closer to Grindelwald, not wanting to hear Tom rattle off the lies.

 _What have I done?_ she asked herself. _What did I just do? I have changed history. I have given him what he needs to launch a bid for legitimate power. I really, really hope this was the right thing to do._

“You know what you have to do if he can’t handle it,” Grindelwald said suddenly, his voice too low for anyone else to overhear.

Hermione swallowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a big plot twist, but I still have several surprises left! I did not want to make this one too obvious, and I hope that it wasn’t. There were minor oddities in Tom's conversation on the subject, though, plus the Lestrange-Beauxbatons thing.
> 
> JKR herself said Muggle-borns all have wizard ancestry somewhere in the family tree. Ergo, there is at least one unbroken line of Squibs starting with the wizard ancestor's offspring and culminating with a seemingly Muggle parent.
> 
> The insidious One Ring-like behavior of the Elder Wand is an extrapolation of mine, given that no one who has possessed it ended up undefeated. “Unbeatable” clearly means something else, and I’d like to believe it means something more than “can’t be used against its master by someone else.”


	19. Silver-Tongued Parselmouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom comes into his own as a lying, scheming politician, and for some reason that makes me happy.

Hermione had expected no less, but within a day of the duel with Grindelwald, she and Tom were celebrities.

 _No,_ she corrected herself mentally, _we’re the “young heroes.”_ That was the designation given to them by Slughorn, who had arranged a pair of interviews with the _Daily Prophet_ within an hour of their return to Britain. The news article about the duel had already been printed. The personal interview was today, three days after that. There would probably be another interview when they were officially awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class for the “feat.”

They awaited the reporter’s arrival in the Great Hall with Dippet, Dumbledore, and Slughorn. Slughorn preened like a peacock, inordinately proud of the “stunning heroics” of his favorite students. “I expect you’ve done what you were sent to do,” he said knowingly to Hermione, his voice in an undertone that only she could hear.

Hermione could not respond except with a forced smile. Clearly Slughorn thought that in the timeline she had come from, Grindelwald had defeated Dumbledore. She could not bring herself to disabuse him of that idea, and if she had told him that Tom was actually the villain from her old time, Slughorn wouldn’t believe it—especially now.

Tom sat across from her, holding the Elder Wand and running his fingers over its surface idly. There was almost a sinister aspect to his anticipation. He was smiling in a way that was just shy of being a leer.  The tip of his yew wand and a corner of dark blue leather protruded from his school bag. Hermione shivered. Ever since winning it, Tom had hardly let the Elder Wand out of his sight. He was almost as attached to it as he was to the diary—which he had requested back from Hermione as soon as they were back at Hogwarts and had a private moment. Apparently, even her Secret-Kept room was not as secure in his mind as his own person. On one hand, she was relieved that her room no longer harbored the thing, but a small part of her was offended that he suddenly and inexplicably did not want her to keep his Horcrux anymore.

 _The Horcrux that he didn’t even “have to” make,_ she thought. _Though I suppose he always intended to create one, and the duel with Grindelwald was just his latest excuse for it._

“Oho!” Slughorn suddenly exclaimed, standing up by his seat. He craned his neck, burst into a smile, and strode forward with the other professors to greet the reporter, Barnabas Cuffe.

Cuffe was still fairly young, Hermione observed. She wondered when he would ascend to the post of editor-in-chief of the newspaper, which he held by her time. He sported a cocky grin that she found rather off-putting, and his overall air reminded her unpleasantly of a mix of Gilderoy Lockhart and Rita Skeeter. A photographer trailed behind him, snapping flash photographs of the small group.

“Horace!” Cuffe exclaimed loudly, greeting Slughorn with a heavy handshake. “Wonderful to see you!” He flashed a dazzling smile at Hermione and Tom. “And these are the heroes! Delightful. Barnabas Cuffe of the _Daily Prophet,”_ he said to them.

They introduced themselves in rather more measured tones. Dippet smiled proudly. “Well,” he said, “since this is _their_ valor and skill, their act of heroism, and they are of age, it would be best if we took ourselves away for the time being.” He gestured to Dumbledore and Slughorn to move away. “We’ll be just outside the doors.”

Once the professors were gone, Cuffe turned to Tom and Hermione with that Lockhart-like grin again. “Well,” he began, “my colleagues printed the account of the duel itself, of course.”

“It was an excellent piece,” Tom said immediately. Hermione wanted to sneer at the flattery but restrained herself.

Cuffe smiled again and took an Auto-Transcribing Quill and parchment out of a briefcase. “And may I offer my personal congratulations to you? I’m sure that both of you are tired of hearing it, but wizarding Europe is in your debt. We all expected Professor Dumbledore to do it, of course, but if I may say so, it makes a much better story this way. Everyone loves young heroes!”

Tom smiled insincerely. “I’m sure Professor Dumbledore had other important things to do. He has been busy with the Minister, after all, what with the—question—about the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” Cuffe’s quill scribbled away as Tom spoke.

Hermione’s jaw almost dropped at this comment. What a backhanded remark, implying that Dumbledore thought promoting Septimus Weasley was more important than dueling Grindelwald. She supposed she ought not to be surprised at it, but she was.

Cuffe did not pick up on the double-edged meaning. “Well, not to speak ill of any of my colleagues or their reporting, but I think that what the wizarding public really wants to know is the human interest angle,” he said. “You’re going to be the youngest recipients of the Order of Merlin, First Class, in years! It’s amazing, and people want to know about such exceptional young people. That’s what I am here for. We’re going to talk today about you two: who you are, what your aspirations are—and what, dare I say, you think of the current situation, now that the war is over.”

Tom smirked. “We would be delighted to talk with you about all of those subjects.”

Cuffe flashed that smile. “Well, ladies first. Miss Green,” he said, turning to Hermione, “you are the first cousin once removed of Professor Dumbledore, and he kept you out of school until this year because of concerns of favoritism. What do you think of that decision? Do you feel that you have adapted to life at Hogwarts well enough?”

Hermione nodded. “I understand why it was done,” she lied glibly. “Fortunately, I have always been studious, so I was not behind in classes when I came.”

“I am sure not!” Cuffe exclaimed. “I understand that the two of you are the top students in your class!” He gazed knowingly at Tom. “Am I correct to guess that Mr. Riddle has been an excellent friend to you this school year, since you fought together?”

Hermione could not look at Tom. “We got off to a rough start—we are very competitive—but yes. He has been.” It wasn’t even a lie, she thought.

Cuffe glanced again at Tom and winked. “I understand _perfectly,”_ he said.

Hermione tried to force the scowl off her features while Cuffe’s attention was on Tom. She needn’t have worried, because the man was clearly more interested in interviewing Tom than Hermione, now that he had concluded that they were a couple.

“And Mr. Riddle,” he said, “quite a cipher, _your_ background. I’ve done a bit of investigation on that topic, and I have a surprise for you today.”

Tom suddenly looked very nervous.

“You were left in the Muggle world, were you not?” Cuffe asked. “The professors told me so.”

Tom nodded curtly, his face expressionless.

“Such a pity,” Cuffe said with a shake of his head. “Not at all where you belonged, no sir. You see, your background was a mystery, and I was determined to crack it. Fortuitously for us, I was able to unearth records of your parents yesterday!”

Hermione realized that _this_ was actually why Cuffe was more interested in Tom. It lifted the surge of annoyance that she had felt at the idea that he spoke for them both if they were together.

“It’s a shame, and I hate to have to break it to you, but… you were named for your father, I was told, and the only other person by that name was a Muggle who unfortunately died the summer before last.” His tone did not match his words. It was eager and excited.

Hermione watched Tom’s face carefully. To her astonishment, disgust, and—loath as she was to admit it—cold-blooded admiration, his features fell naturally into an expression of sorrow and regret.

“That _is_ a shame,” Tom said in a low voice. “If I had known he was alive, I would have wanted to meet him.”

The quill took this down furiously. Hermione wanted to slap him.

“Your mother, as you know, died in childbirth, but I was able to obtain her name as well from the Muggle marriage certificate. She was Merope Gaunt, from an old wizarding family that unfortunately fell on very hard times in recent decades.”

Tom twisted the ring on his finger. “She actually left me my ring,” he lied. “I couldn’t wear it for the longest time. My hands weren’t large enough,” he said with a good-natured laugh. “I’m glad to know who she was at last. It means a lot to me to know who they were—where I came from. Thank you for doing the research.”

Hermione wanted to _curse_ him. The smooth-talking, silver-tongued, _lying—_

Cuffe shook his head in a play of sympathy, though really relishing it. “I also must tell you, Mr. Riddle, that you actually have a wizarding relation—though you might not want to claim him, I’m sorry to say.”

“Whom do you mean?” Tom asked carefully.

“Your uncle,” Cuffe said. “He… I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t say it—”

 _But you can’t help yourself,_ Hermione thought with disdain. This entire performance was disgustingly dishonest on both sides. It was really no surprise, she thought, that Barnabas Cuffe would go on to print blatant falsehoods for sensationalist purposes—or to try to catch the prevailing political winds—in her original timeline.

“—but you have the right to know. He is in Azkaban for the murder of your father and Muggle grandparents.” He shook his head yet again.

Tom considered how to respond to that. Finally he said, “I suppose it was probably an act of revenge for my mother marrying a Muggle. I would still like to meet him at some point—just to show him that I am alive, and that there is nothing he can do about it.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged with the Minister,” Cuffe said at once. “Or the new Head of Law Enforcement, whoever it ends up being.”

Hermione suddenly knew with utter certainty that Morfin Gaunt was going to die in prison after that visit took place. She wasn’t sure how Tom would manage it—possibly a slow-acting curse or poison—but she had no doubt in her mind that it would happen.

“And on that subject,” Cuffe said, “this question is for both of you. What are your ambitions? I’m advised by Horace that you are interested in Ministry careers.”

They both nodded. “I actually would like to work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Hermione said before Tom could speak.

“So would I,” he put in.

“Indeed, your professor advised me that the two of you have policy opinions already! An excellent thing. He said that at a small dinner, you both spoke against the proposals of Mr. Septimus Weasley. Mr. Weasley, of course, is now a contender for DMLE Head.”

“I’m sure Mr. Weasley is a competent wizard,” Tom said smoothly before Hermione could speak, “but now that the war is over, I think it is more important than ever to focus on peacetime. The Propaganda Restriction Act in particular is—problematic in a peacetime environment.”

Cuffe’s eyes glittered with glee as his quill took down Tom’s words. “Mr. Weasley says that the bill is necessary to prevent the future spread of propaganda like Grindelwald used,” he said. “Your opposition—and Miss Green’s—is based on principle, then?”

Hermione spoke first. “In part, but it is also based on the view that Grindelwald’s message appealed to so many people because of their own experiences. Rather than banning the speech itself, we believe that the Ministry, and Ministries everywhere, should consider _why_ the European constituency found that message so compelling and address their concerns in policy where appropriate.”

“I agree with Hermione,” Tom said. “Banning the message itself will only make people _more_ likely to turn to figures like Grindelwald. They would fear their own government.”

 _You wouldn’t mind that if you were running it,_ Hermione thought cynically. Then she realized that this Tom would _not_ want to rule by terror. He would want to be popular—albeit on his own terms, always his own terms. It would give him more power.

Cuffe was enjoying this. He smiled that brilliant smile again. “‘The young heroes who defeated Grindelwald agree that the Propaganda Restriction Act would be counterproductive’! Marvelous line.” He looked up, smiling with his lips closed this time. “And what of the Seizure of Dark or Dangerous Artifacts? That one’s rather topical lately, wouldn’t you agree? At least, it was until the pair of you removed Grindelwald.”

Tom smiled predatorily, not even attempting to hide it this time. Hermione felt a shiver of foreboding—or anticipation, she was not sure which.

“I don’t agree at all with Mr. Weasley’s views on that, especially relating to the recent tragedy,” he said bluntly.

Hermione tried to avoid glancing at the exposed dark blue book corner sticking out of his school bag. She wished she could Disapparate, because she did not want to hear this. It was one thing to hear him lie about the duel with Grindelwald. At least Grindelwald himself had been fully complicit—and was alive. It was worse to hear him spew honeyed lies about his family. This, though… this was the worst of all.

“I rather suspect that the problem was not that ‘even the DMLE Head is at risk from Dark artifacts,’ as Mr. Weasley has said,” Tom continued, looking Cuffe in the eye and smirking crookedly as the quill scratched on the parchment. “At least, not the DMLE Head in general. You know, Mr. Cuffe, that Arcturus Black was awarded the Order of Merlin for unspecified ‘services to the Ministry’ shortly before his cousin got the appointment.”

Cuffe gasped. “Mr. Riddle, are you implying—”

“The wizarding world runs on patronage,” Tom said dismissively. “There’s nothing wrong with that. But I think it’s important that those who benefit from patronage are qualified in their own right. You know Professor Slughorn, Mr. Cuffe. I am proud to consider him a mentor, and he makes sure that his protégés are well-suited for the positions he recommends us for. I understand that he recommended you for the _Prophet._ That is how patronage should work.”

Hermione was in awe. Tom was simultaneously condemning Arcturus Black, speaking against Weasley’s bill, casting doubt on the Minister’s integrity, and flattering Cuffe himself—as well as Slughorn, for good measure, presumably to ensure that he himself appeared every bit the grateful young protégé rather than a malcontent. It was wrong, very wrong, but it… impressed her. She found her thoughts straying from the interview questions as she regarded Tom in his well-kept robes and neat suit underneath.

“I am not speaking against Mr. Black, or the late Mr. Pollux Black, but one does have to wonder how someone who couldn’t handle Dark artifacts became Head of Magical Law Enforcement. There are plenty of people who know exactly how to handle them,” Tom continued. Cuffe’s quill was scratching furiously. “Though not _enough,”_ he concluded. “Again, I don’t want to speak against my professor—she has given us fine grounding in dueling, obviously, and how to deal with Dark creatures—but there probably should be more instruction in how to neutralize and _safely store_ Dark artifacts. Many of them are of historical or intrinsic value and shouldn’t just be destroyed… and what I read indicated that the Black artifacts were not secured.”

Cuffe’s eyes were wide with surprise and delight as his quill finished transcribing what Tom said. Hermione was silent, still taking it all in—and trying unsuccessfully to quell her resurgent thoughts of attraction to him. She suddenly realized why this bothered her so much. It was not because he was lying about a murder. It was not even because he was lying about a Horcrux victim, much as she might have wanted it to be that. It was because she agreed with most of what he was saying. Some things did need to change. The official story was false, but there were grains of truth. Pollux Black _had_ been unfit for his position. Arcturus Black _did_ have undue influence. Weasley _was_ excessive in his determination to destroy anything “dangerous,” even historic or valuable items. And the school Defense curriculum _was_ very flawed. Even if the catalyst was a lie, making necessary changes was better than not making them… wasn’t it?

“And you agree with what Mr. Riddle has said, Miss Green?” Cuffe asked her.

She nodded, though it felt somewhat involuntary. “Tom and I have discussed these bills at length before, and we are in agreement on the essentials.”

“Should I indicate that the two of you are endorsing… Mr. Ogden?” Cuffe asked. “Or Mr. Yaxley?”

“We’re not endorsing anyone,” Tom said smoothly. “We just hope that the Minister makes this decision based on qualifications. It’s a very important one.” He smiled.

Cuffe was on the edge of his seat. “I’m afraid I must draw the interview to a close with this, but before I do, have you any more policy opinions—either of you—that you would like to share?”

Tom considered for a moment before smiling again. “I think I do. This one is especially pertinent to the information that you gave me about my family background. I don’t know how common it is for wizarding children to be left among unrelated Muggles when their parents die, but it should _never_ happen. This school can track who Muggle-born children are. It should know where _any_ magical child is living. No young witch or wizard should ever have to grow up in a Muggle orphanage—or worse.”

Hermione had the flash of insight that this statement was entirely sincere, in contrast to a great deal of what Tom had said in this interview. It surprised—and warmed—her to hear him speak up to prevent other children from experiencing what he had, since he himself could not benefit now from a change in policy. _Except by gaining credit for suggesting it,_ she thought, but that did not bother her.

“And you, Miss Green?” Cuffe asked her.

Hermione took a deep breath. This was a commitment to something for which, several years ago, she would have been fully on Dumbledore’s side in the belief that no one should care about ancestry. But the war year had changed her perspective. “I do have a suggestion, on a related note to what Tom said,” she began. “Grindelwald’s researchers were able to show that Muggle-borns all have wizard ancestors. It makes sense. That means their immediate families—some family members, at least—are Squibs. They should be protected under wizarding law like first-generation Squibs.”

“That’s very interesting, Miss Green.”

“Yes,” she said forcefully. “And—more importantly, I think these families should be introduced to magic before the child turns eleven. _Years_ before. Possibly in infancy, so they will know what to expect from their child and can get accustomed to the idea. They should be offered wizarding support too, if they need it.”

“An excellent proposal!” Cuffe exclaimed. “There will be loads of support for that from Muggle-borns in this country, I dare say!” He flicked his wand at the quill, and it finished writing with a flourish. The parchments dried instantly and rolled up, and all of the materials sailed into Cuffe’s briefcase.

Tom went to the doors of the Great Hall to let the professors back in. They saw off Cuffe in a flurry of excited handshakes while Tom and Hermione stood aside, smiling and replying politely when addressed.

At last the bustle was over, and the reporter was out the door. The professors left too, Slughorn giving them meaningful and entirely unsubtle looks as he lumbered through the heavy doors. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and sank down on a bench. Tom hesitated for a moment before joining her.

They sat in silence for a little while, alone in the vast Great Hall, until he spoke. “I hope you understand why I had to do that,” he said quietly.

She could not meet his eyes, but she could nod, and she did. “I wish it hadn’t been necessary at all, but… it was over a year and a half ago.” She paused. “You know what name you went by in my timeline. I appreciate that you have never had anyone use it in my presence. It would bother me to hear it addressed to you. But you, the other you, did it because y— _he_ hated his birth name and… half-blood heritage,” she said quickly. “Now the entire wizarding world will know about it.”

“Yes, they will.”

“Doesn’t that bother you? And what about the Slytherin connection and the Chamber of Secrets? That could be dangerous.”

He quirked a brow and smiled crookedly. “In the first place, it took me five years to trace the bloodline when I was _looking_ for connections to Parselmouths. The genealogy books are only well-documented for the post-Seclusion period, and people have scores of ancestors a thousand years back. Also, it was only ever gossip that the Chamber of Secrets was opened, and people stopped crediting that rumor after… well, you know,” he said smugly as Hermione’s face grew pinched. “As for my— _parents—_ I knew it would eventually come out. People would want to know who the Minister—who a Department Head, for that matter—was. It was inevitable. And my name is not that despicable deadbeat Muggle’s name anymore. He’s dead. Corpses aren’t people. It’s _my_ name.”

Hermione sighed. Of course he would come up with a rationalization like that. But there was something else. “Department Head? You can’t mean to put _yourself_ forward.”

“Not now, but I’ll hold it eventually,” he said confidently. His fingers involuntarily reached for the Elder Wand. “I hope this Ogden fellow does get the job. He’s the most senior person by far, and his ‘candidacy’ to the Minister is based on that. He’s his own man. I wouldn’t want to work for someone who was owned by Black or Dumbledore.”

Hermione could not particularly blame him. She really hoped that Yaxley was not chosen, considering what a relative of his would do to the DMLE in the alternate future. Tom had taken care of that as well as he could, making insinuations about the influence of Arcturus Black on the Minister and endorsing “qualifications.”

“I should go,” he said abruptly, standing up. “We’ll talk later.”

* * *

_London._

Abraxas Malfoy and Crawford Rosier passed down the street, expressions of disdain on their aristocratic faces as they approached Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

“Filthy Muggle rubbish,” Rosier spat, kicking at an overturned bin. “How can they stand to live like this?”

Malfoy walked carefully around the puddle of half-decomposed food scraps with a sneer. They approached the townhouse, which appeared magically, pushing Eleven and Thirteen aside as it did.

One of Arcturus Black’s house-elves greeted the wizards and showed them in. “Master will be here very soon,” the elf squeaked as they sat down in the parlor.

Sure enough, the intimidating figure of Arcturus Black appeared in the doorway shortly. He looked frustrated and unhappy as he sat down.

“Well,” he said, “I think I know why you are here, but nonetheless….”

They exchanged glances, nonverbally deciding who should speak first. It was Malfoy. He took a deep breath. “Arcturus, we want you to know that we continue to support the cause of blood purity, of course, but at the moment, we have… well, Crawford and I have come to an agreement about these young people.”

“Have you.” It was not a question, and it was spoken with resignation.

“Yes,” Malfoy continued. “We do not think they were being used by Dumbledore, given their clear opposition to Weasley in that interview. And that comment made by the young man about Dumbledore’s priorities—no, Crawford and I believe that they are just young people. Misguided—I also saw the Riddle boy’s comments about you—but that is, perhaps, to be expected at that age. They are, at the moment, considered heroes, and all sorts of people will want to influence them. As for the leak, we are quite sure that it was Dumbledore himself.”

Black sighed. “That may be. I understand why you and Crawford want to… retire from our little conspiracy.”

“I have no family,” Malfoy said bluntly. “It is up to me to continue the Malfoy name. It is important that none of the pureblood families die out, and I have decided to make this my priority.”

“I agree entirely on _that,”_ Black said.

Rosier spoke up. “I don’t wish to break our agreement, of course,” he said. “With my daughter and your late cousin’s son. Abraxas and I just want out of the political part of this for now.”

Black nodded unhappily. “I am not entirely surprised, and I hold no ill will toward either of you for it. The death of my cousin was a shock to us all.”

Rosier and Malfoy exchanged quick glances. “You still think—”

“Yes,” Black said sharply. “I do.”

They exchanged another glance. “Very well,” Rosier said reluctantly. “I have to advise you, though, to pursue the idea quietly.”

“I know. It was a mistake to say that to the newspaper. It is best to keep a low profile now anyway. You shall do it in your way, and I in mine.”

Malfoy and Rosier took that as a dismissal. They made their farewells to Black and politely left the house. Black retreated to his study and began composing a parchment to send to Pierre Lestrange.

_“As we predicted, Malfoy and Rosier have left. It profits us nothing to make enemies of them, but for numbers, we do need another ally now.”_

* * *

A few days after the in-depth personal interview was printed, the _Prophet_ carried another highly important piece of news. Tom pulled Hermione into an empty room after breakfast with a smug look on his face.

“I saw it,” she said. She opened the paper, which reported Bob Ogden’s promotion.

“Did you see what else was in it?”

“‘In a surprising twist, it was discovered that nineteen years ago, Ogden was the Law Enforcement Patrol employee who arrested the uncle and grandfather of one of the young people who recently defeated Grindelwald. When asked by owl post for comment, young hero Tom Riddle stated that it appears that Ogden’s enforcement of justice brought his parents together, as Ogden recalled that Riddle’s witch mother was abused and neglected by her family.’” Hermione glared at him. “You are unbelievably shameless.”

Tom preened. “I’ll take that as a supreme compliment, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, but there was no spirit in it.

He did not deign to respond to that. “Why shouldn’t I use this to my advantage?”

“Hmm, let me think,” Hermione muttered cynically under her breath.

He shrugged, still smirking. “This is wonderful. He has lingering sympathy for her from that, which will translate to liking _me._ I think we’re set, wouldn’t you agree?”

She scowled. “I don’t see where I fit in this.”

He lowered his voice. “Yes, you do,” he said, almost growling. He glanced at the wall behind her and stepped forward. She involuntarily backed up a little.

“I saw you during our interview,” he said. “You couldn’t keep your eyes off me. Remembering things we did, weren’t you? I bet you were.”

“I’m not answering that,” she mumbled.

He moved closer. “You don’t need to.”

“You’re not a good person,” she said.

He put on a deliberately fake hurt face. “Oh, I’m not _that_ bad.”

“You’ve done things—I mean, I don’t even care so much about the lies, and I can’t change what happened before I arrived, but you _know_ what I’m referring to—”

He placed his hands on either side of her face. “And you don’t care anymore.”

“I do care,” she protested.

A finger found its way behind her ear. “Not enough to stay away from me.”

She shivered at his touch. “It’s just a physical reaction. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Liar,” he hissed, closing the gap between them.

Hermione gave in, leaning into his hands as they moved to cup her face. He parted her lips and began to kiss her greedily, the way he had always done, his tongue plundering her and dueling with hers, his teeth nipping lightly at her lips, all to leave his mark on her. She pressed herself against him down to their hips, grinding against his crotch. He groaned and nipped hard at her lower lip.

“You’re going to _get it_ in a bit,” he murmured, breaking away. He gazed down at her face, a hungry look in his eyes. “And you deserve it.” He involuntarily reached into his robe pocket, where he kept the Elder Wand. A dark smile formed on his face as he touched it.

Her eyes widened, and she tried to ignore the thrill that traveled down her body at the words. She edged away from him, and as she did, her gaze dropped to his school bag.

“Why did you want that back?” she asked, knowing she did not have to clarify.

He was startled for a moment, but he quickly realized what she meant. He smirked. “You want it after all?”

She ignored that. “I want to know why you think it is safer for you to carry it on your person all the time than to store it… _there.”_

He took the knobby wand out of his pocket and ran his fingers lightly over it. His features turned in confusion. “I know exactly where it is,” he said, as if it should be obvious. “It’s always with me, so I know. It makes sense.”

“No, Tom, it doesn’t,” she said. “You would know where it was _there_ too, and it would be under all sorts of strong enchantments.” Her gaze traveled to the wand in his hand, and she suddenly gasped with a realization.

“What’s the matter?”

“The wand,” she breathed. “‘Easier prey for Death,’ Grindelwald said. Tom, it’s influencing you.”

He was shocked, and for a moment he only clutched the Elder Wand tighter, but as her words sank in, his face changed. He blinked.

“You’re right,” he said abruptly. He held the wand out, staring warily at it. Then he slipped it back into his pocket. “Well. I’m glad you noticed that. I’m onto its little trick now.” He took her arm with his. “That’s yet another reason to go _there._ The diary should be put back where it was, and I have things to _do._ In fact… yes. You _did_ ask for it. Let’s go.”


	20. Possessive Forms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Tom/Hermione in this rather long chapter! They finally have a long overdue discussion. There is another scene of BDSM smut here as well, and this one’s rather harder than the one in chapter 13. After that there is a scene that might be a little creepy, but I like it and I hope you do too. Finally, the total chapter count has been extended again, due to material I thought could fit into this chapter but decided should have its own instead.

Tom bustled Hermione up the many flights of stairs to the Room of Requirement. By the time she reached the room, she was panting from the exercise. He turned around from the door, hearing her heavy breathing, and smirked knowingly at her, certain that it was from something else.

He tossed his school bag on the second armchair, the one that the Room still conjured when Hermione entered this room. The one that it had conjured throughout their breakup, much to her melancholy and dismay. He smirked again at the sight of the chair.

“The diary,” she began, trying futilely to stave off what her palpitating heart told her was coming.

“Will be fine where it is for now,” he finished. He raised an eyebrow and leered at her. “Though your desire to have it back is duly noted.”

“It’s not that,” she said at once. “It’s just as we said—it’s safer here.”

Tom ignored this and began to advance on her, smiling in a seemingly benign way while his eyes flashed intimidatingly. “I presume this means I’ll receive an apology for that night.”

She scowled. “You _presume_ a great deal.”

He flashed a white smile as he reached her. “But my presumptions are correct, aren’t they, dear?”

Hermione stood her ground, staring up at him. “You don’t have the right to call me that.”

He tapped her nose, still smiling. “First of all, _darling,”_ he said pointedly, “I do as I like. But more to the point, I think after what happened downstairs, I do have the right.”

She had opened her mouth to protest and argue, even knowing that she would not win—or _because_ she knew she would not win, a little voice whispered in her head—when he grabbed her face, pulled her in, and seized her mouth with his own.

It was like the kiss that had taken place a few minutes ago except somehow even more possessive and powerful. He was almost engulfing her, perfect teeth biting at her lips and tongue, his own tongue flitting out between nips to lick and tease the inside of her mouth. Hermione took this for a few seconds. Then—

 _I don’t think so. It won’t be all his own way._ She reached for his head and dug fingernails into his hair and scalp, eliciting a growl from him. His eyes briefly fluttered open. The light in his pupils flashed scarlet for a fraction of a second—and then he shoved her hard against the wall next to her bed. He bit her lip harder, then pulled away almost violently.

They stared at each other. She licked her lips, which were red and throbbing from the aftermath of his bites. His hair was wild, and his eyes were even more feral.

“Well, aren’t you a minx,” he growled. He fumbled in his robes and smirked as he withdrew the Elder Wand. “You’ve had it coming for a while now, ever since that one night. Lie down and I might go easy on you.”

Hermione stared back at him defiantly. “I’ve never taken orders from you, Tom, and I don’t intend to start now.” She reached for her own pocket.

He smirked and raised his wand. “Oh, but you _have._ We did this before, remember,” he said insolently. “And you’ll like it even more this time.” He brought the wand down with a dramatic movement.

She had dueled with him in class for months now, however, and she had learned his tricks and his style. She put up a shield too fast for his hex, which would have flung her to the mattress. Tom looked surprised for a moment but reacted quickly, casting a spell that broke apart her shield and then physically shoving her down on the bed. He mounted it himself and straddled her triumphantly.

 _“That’s_ more like it,” he said. He ran the tip of the wand down the side of her face and neck to the sensitive area over her collarbone.

She reached for his wand, aware that seemingly challenging him for it—for _this_ wand—would get a reaction, and she was not mistaken. He flicked it swiftly, almost elegantly, and her arms were flung away from him by an unseen force. He flicked it again, and the ropes he liked so much flew from the wand and bound them to her bedpost.

“You know I can’t let you have this,” he remarked casually, smiling at her. “And for trying to take it from me….” The smile turned into that smirk again. He waved the wand once more.

A sensation of electrical charge, mild burning, and—implausibly—intense tactile pleasure spread across her body. A gasp escaped her mouth against her will as it reached her navel and pelvic area. He did not fail to notice. The corners of his mouth remained up as he raised one eyebrow minutely—but very obviously to her.

“You are _so_ full of yourself,” she hissed, feeling the flush of heat fill her face.

“And _you_ are so… unruly.” His tone was amused.

She sucked in her breath. “If you want to take me, then why not just do it?”

He put his hands on her hips and held her down while leaning over her, so their faces were mere centimeters apart. “Because that’s _not_ all that I want to do.” He paused, relishing the impatience in her face. “You really have not been very nice to me lately, and I’m sure I haven’t done anything to deserve such ill-treatment.”

“Why, you—”

“So,” Tom continued as if she had not spoken at all, “I have to… _punish_ you for that first.” He bared a white, feral grin at her.

“You’ve done all sorts of things!” she protested, trying to ignore the growing thrum in her lower body. “You told huge lies, to me and to _everyone_ else, you stalked me, you did _very_ Dark magic—”

With a single fluid movement, he lifted himself off her and whirled her over on her stomach. She gasped. He pushed her face down into a pillow, covering her mouth. “And if you hated me _so much_ for any of those things, we wouldn’t be in your bed, _would we?”_ He did not wait for an answer, and her words were muffled anyway. “You rejected me. And then you told me that you were only speaking to me again—‘allying’ with me, as you put it—for pragmatic reasons.” He chuckled derisively. “I’m not the only liar in this room.”

He lifted the pressure off the back of her head and slipped his hands under her body, going to work immediately on her jacket and blouse buttons. It did not take long to undo all of them. He pulled the clothing back, eased it up her bound arms, and wrapped it loosely around her wrists. She turned her head sideways to try to see him.

He bent his head and met her eyes with a grin. “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere,” he purred. He ran his hands lightly across her sides and bare back, smirking as she jerked involuntarily under him. He slipped his index fingers into her waistband and quickly unzipped her skirt, then pulled it down and off.

Hermione’s heart was thumping, and she could tell that her panties were soaked. Her body definitely missed and wanted him, and she knew very well that she would be sated soon. What about her mind? Did she still want him for reasons other than physical?

 _Yes,_ her thoughts whispered. _I do. Despite all of the deceit and—the Dark magic—I’m still in—_

She didn’t want to complete that thought or think too hard about this right now. He was tracing her hips lightly with his fingers, and she felt his weight and warmth. “Do more of that,” she urged.

Suddenly, to her dismay, the caressing stopped. She felt him lean over her again, close to her head, and heard a dark laugh next to her right ear. “Hermione, _dearest,_ you aren’t giving the orders.”

He leaned all the way down and bit her ear.

She twisted on the mattress, arms straining against the bonds, legs thrashing in all directions. Involuntarily, she rose sharply off the bed and slammed against his crotch. He gasped in surprise and drew back abruptly, pulling on her ear for a moment with his teeth before releasing it. He reached for the wand.

“I couldn’t help it—” she began to protest.

“Oh, that’s not why I’m doing this,” he growled. Hermione craned her neck to see him slash the wand through the air. He conjured a leather object with many small strips. Smirking, he thrashed it in an arc above her thighs and backside. A slap filled the air, and at the same time, a surge of mild pain spread over her from her right thigh outward.

“You just want to dominate me,” she snarled, feeling her skin tingle.

“Obviously. You are mine, after all.” Glee filled his words. “And as I said… you haven’t been very nice to me in a while. Being so hostile to me on my special night—”

“Your _special night?”_ she exclaimed in disbelief.

“I’m not doing it five _more_ times, dearest,” he said smugly. “Or six. So yes, _special_. And now you want the diary here, so you should apologize to me for that absurd reaction.”

“You have to be joking.”

He brought the cat o’ nine tails down in an arc again, this time on her backside, bringing a renewed throb of pain. “Not in the least. Say it.”

“I am not doing any such thing. You didn’t want me to lie, after all,” she ground out, trying to ignore the tingling. He really wasn’t doing this very hard….

As if on cue, he lashed her rather harder. This one stung. She gritted her teeth. “I’ll apologize for… hurting you in the duel later,” she decided. “That is, if you’ll say it too.”

Another lash, which made her twitch beneath him. “Not good enough.”

“Is this a game, or are you actually still angry with me?”

He leaned over next to her ear. “You should ask yourself, does it matter?” he hissed. He pulled back and lashed her on the thigh again, hard.

She winced. Her skin was heated and stinging where he had whipped her. It burned, but at the same time… it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The heat and nerve tingling were just at the right level to stimulate _other_ types of sensations—or the desire for them—and she knew that any more of this would actually _hurt._ She didn’t want that.

“It doesn’t,” she gasped. “I’m… sorry.”

He paused, smirking in triumph. “For?”

“For… rejecting you.”

“You appreciate me, don’t you?”

She could not see his face, but she could tell he was smirking. “Of course I do.”

He tossed the whip aside, leaving it right next to her head, close enough for her to notice and recognize that he could easily pick it up again if he wanted. He repositioned himself on her, centering himself just over her thighs. He slipped his fingers into her underwear again.

“Should I remove these?” he said, sliding them down slightly, just off her hips.

“Yes,” she said at once.

“Wrong answer.” Before she could react, his fingers were gone from the waistband of her knickers. One hand pressed hard on her back, preventing her from moving. The other reached again for the wand.

“What do you— _oh!_ ” Waves of painful pleasure passed over her body, focused as intense heat in her nether regions. She did not know what this spell was, or for that matter, why he had learned it—or how to conjure whips—though she realized at once, through the haze, that it was probably for just these occasions.

He lifted the spell. “You don’t deserve it just yet,” he remarked in casual tones.

“What do you want me to do?” she exclaimed, her core throbbing with want. She turned her head to try to see him.

He smirked and raised a single eyebrow. “I want you to make me a promise. When I give _it_ to you again, you’ll write in it. In my presence.”

“Are you _serious—”_

He brought the wand down in an arc again, sending a sharp sting across her backside.

“All right,” she gasped.

“If I insist?”

“If you insist.”

“You’ll do what I tell you to, won’t you?” His tone was insufferably arrogant.

She hesitated. “I—”

He was suddenly next to her ear again. _“Won’t you?”_ he growled, taking her earlobe between his teeth once more.

She sucked in her breath. “Yes.” _It’s just a game,_ she told herself. _Just a game._

He released her ear and drew back. “Of course you will, darling.” He paused for a moment, then quickly divested himself of robes and suit jacket. He loosened his tie and slipped it around his shirt collar. “Shall I use this again, I wonder?” he mused, setting it down and unbuttoning his shirt. “I don’t think so,” he answered himself. “I think I want you to see me.” He ran a single finger over her shoulder blades. “And you _want_ to see me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said at once.

He removed his trousers and shirt, then grabbed his wizard robe again and threw it on loosely, leaving it completely open down the middle. He picked up the Elder Wand and regarded it for a moment with a smirk, then trailed its tip over her neck, shoulders, and back, making small circles with it.

 _He really gets off on using it,_ she realized, shivering from the sensation. It was light, but isolated and therefore somehow intense.

As if reading her mind, he spoke up. “You know, the last time we did this, I was just the Head Boy. I’m much more… _accomplished_ now, and we both have lots of _power_. You should enjoy this.”

 _You arrogant—_ she began to think, but her thoughts changed direction on their own as he reached, once more, for her knickers. This time, at long last, he removed them. The small mint green satin object sailed to the foot of the huge bed.

He laughed as he observed how wet she was. “You _have_ missed me, I see.”

She gasped and heaved her breath when he slid two fingers into her. He laughed again. “I’m sure you’ve missed me just as much,” she shot back in a last gesture of pride.

“It’s not my fault that you haven’t let me fuck you in nearly two weeks.” He withdrew his fingers.

She opened her mouth to object that it most certainly was his fault, but she shut it at once. He would only demand more abasement from her if she did, and that would delay… things. He smirked knowingly as she closed her lips, perfectly aware of what she had opted not to say and why.

Tom grabbed her hips, forced her legs apart, and thrust into her all the way. Instantly she felt relief at—at being filled again, she thought, faintly flushing at the realization. Filled by him. She had missed this, she thought vaguely as he began to move—and then her thoughts were flung back to the present.

“Wanted this,” he murmured. He leaned down, changing his angle, and nipped her left ear. “Meant to be just like this, aren’t we?”

To the extent that she could think coherently about anything, Hermione could not help but agree. It felt like he _should_ be inside her. They _fit_ together, physically and otherwise. There had not been a learning curve for them to discover how to best please each other; it had been somehow instinctive—or, perhaps, anything he had done had pleased her, and vice versa.

“Yeah,” she managed to gasp.

He ran a single finger over the nape of her neck. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured without hesitation.

The acknowledgment almost sent him into a frenzy. He began to move fast and hard, very aggressively, bringing her sharply closer to her peak. She gasped and tugged at the bonds on her wrists.

Suddenly he withdrew. She was about to call out in protest when he grabbed her hips, flipped her over on her back, and filled her again. The pressure on her wrists lessened slightly.

“Had to look at you,” he gasped, leaning down. He licked the shell of her ear and slipped a hand between her legs. He ran his tongue over her ear and pressed her clit hard.

She let out a gasp. Close.

He nipped her ear and pressed harder with his fingers.

“Want to watch you….” He pulled back, staring at her intensely. “Come for me.” He moved his hand slightly.

That did it. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist, squeezing, straining against the bedpost with her arms, as waves poured over her shaking body. “You’re mine too,” she gasped out as soon as her voice would work again.

He paused for a second as if unsure whether to accept the statement. Then—

“Yes.” It was abrupt, jerky. It was all he could get out.

He pushed forward and released, squeezing her shoulders so hard it would leave marks, digging neatly trimmed nails into her skin.

It felt perfect.

* * *

They stayed like that for a while, feeling lazy and satisfied. Tom removed the bonds from Hermione’s wrists, and she immediately draped them comfortably around his neck. He stretched, making a point of running his fingers through Hermione’s hair as he did. He placed lazy kisses on the side of her neck.

“I’m glad you’ve changed your mind,” he remarked.

He seemed a little pale. When had that started? Hermione was reasonably sure that he had never regained all his color since— _that night._ Perhaps his body would never replenish all the blood he had sacrificed, any more than he would regrow the part of his soul that he had torn off.

She pushed the idea out of her mind. “I suppose… it would take a lot, now, to make me want to give you up. More than I would have thought,” she admitted.

He looked smugly triumphant. “I think _I_ may know your limit better than you do, dearest.”

She felt discomfited at that thought, though she could not rule it out. _Did_ he know her mind better than she herself did—or was he just aware that her “limit” might be malleable?

“Can I ask you something?” she said abruptly, changing the subject.

“You can. I may not answer.”

She scowled at that but continued. “When you use terms of endearment… do you mean them? Or is it just something you do because it’s expected, or because you want me to respond in a certain way?”

He looked startled at the question. “Does it really bother you?” he said hesitantly.

“I just want to know.”

He hesitated, thinking. Finally he said, “It’s some of one and some of three.”

Her face turned sour.

“But do you really think it’s different for anyone else?”

That made her pause. “Probably not,” she admitted in a low voice.

“I have a reason to use them. You are important to me,” he said. “Not just that. You’re the only person who has ever been important to me for this reason. I’ve wanted _things_ before, but never a person. You said it would take a lot for you to truly be done with me. It’s the same for me, obviously, since I wasn’t done with you after our… dispute.”

Oh yes, that had occurred to her. Voldemort would try to slay a whole room of people for merely hearing about a golden cup. Tom would force her to watch the entire process itself and then merely observe her whereabouts with a tracking spell after she lashed out at him. She knew that, somehow, the “rules” were different for her—that he valued her too much to cast her off in anger.

She met his gaze and managed a smile. “I know. I understand what I mean to you, I think. I want you to know, and never doubt, that it’s reciprocated.”

He supported her with one arm around her waist. “I would kill to protect you,” he remarked casually. “I already have and I would do it again without a moment’s hesitation.”

Hermione felt as if cold water had been thrown over her. Why did he instantly decide that the way to express his feelings was by mentioning _this?_ “I’m aware,” she said tartly, extracting herself from his embrace. “You would take revenge on anyone who harmed, or threatened to harm, ‘something of yours.’ I understand _that_ perfectly well.”

Tom looked stung. “ _Do_ you really understand? I wonder,” he sneered. “This is different from anything else. I would do that, I admit it, but… my Knights, for instance, I wouldn’t give a damn about unless someone did it to send a message to me. But if someone hurt you… well, it would actually be worse if they did it strictly to make you suffer, rather than me. I just _don’t feel that_ about other people. Only you.” He stared at her. “When I killed Black, I did it for you.”

“Tom, don’t lie to me. You said you wouldn’t.”

“That wasn’t a lie.” He scowled.

“You admitted freely that you did it to create a Horcrux. I’m _quite_ sure you did that for yourself.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Well, yes, I did _that_ for myself, but I did take revenge for you. And you know what—let’s discuss it, finally. Civilly. You didn’t want to see me do it at the time, but I hope you understand now what I meant. I _wanted_ you to see it. I didn’t intend to let anyone know when I created one, but then you came, and—I had to. It was important, and you have to share in the things that are important to me.”

Hermione grimaced at this declaration, as if it were a win in some scholastic or athletic competition that he had wanted her to witness.

“I really thought you would understand,” he said agitatedly. “I saw in your memories the disdain that people had for your interests. Those horrid girls in your old dormitory, that redheaded boy… I saw how they regarded you because you were superior.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “It really was a compliment, Hermione.”

Hermione winced and closed her eyes. This was a crossroads of sorts, and she had to make a decision. She had originally fallen for a person who was already responsible for four deaths, and who tortured and cursed his classmates whenever they displeased him—but she was able to ignore his past because it did not have any bearing on what was going on in the immediate present. She had told herself that the abuse of his schoolmates was mild in comparison with what Voldemort had done and that it was not that different from what went on at Hogwarts all the time. That might have been true, but she had still had a false ideal of him. The real Tom was this person, an accomplished Dark wizard who had orchestrated the basis for his political rise by espionage, deceit, and murder. He wasn’t Voldemort, but he wasn’t her almost-perfect gentleman either. Could she continue to care for this person, the real person?

Her rose-colored conception of him was gone, ripped to pieces with a single dark curse whose purpose was, fittingly, to tear apart. Since then she had supported his plans and chosen to keep his secrets out of pragmatism—at least partially—but now she had to decide whether to choose him _personally,_ and that was very different.

He would fall prey to his own darkness if she pushed him away, she realized. It was probably especially risky now that he had the Elder Wand. She was keenly aware that she was the only person other than himself that he truly cared anything about, or whose approval he desired for unselfish reasons—at least, reasons no more selfish than wanting to keep her with him. She couldn’t stop everything that he might do, but she could stop him from some things. She already had. That meant there was still something worth saving.

“I understand that now, Tom,” she finally said. “I had built up a form of you in my own mind that wasn’t real, and that was a harsh awakening to reality. I also had spent months in my old life tracking them down in a hellish nightmare world, and that influenced me. But that doesn’t mean I now think it’s fine that you did it. I think Horcruxes are unnatural. I just… don’t want to hound you about it anymore.”

“But you still wanted to have the last word, I notice,” he said scathingly. “Hermione, we are magical! Think about it! The purpose of magic is to contravene nature, to rise above it! You overcame time; that’s pretty damned _unnatural,_ isn’t it? Why is overcoming death so evil? Even the bloody, blasted Muggles exercise dominance over nature when they can. We have the power to overcome nature in a way that they can never do.”

“But it’s your soul. You shouldn’t _do_ that to it… and I don’t understand why you would. You have the Resurrection Stone. You see ghosts every day. I just—don’t get this. You _know_ we go on. What are you _afraid_ of?”

“I….” He trailed off, uncertainly. He frowned thoughtfully and bit his lip, trying to come to a decision about something. “It’s just this. Ghosts can’t enjoy food or drink… they can’t make things; they pass through things; they can’t do magic. And the Resurrection Stone… well, we might not be wizards if we ‘go on’ either. I can’t give that up. It matters too much to me. Or… everyone might have magic. That’s almost as bad, if magic were no longer special.” He closed up, scowling deeply. “I’m done trying to justify this to you, Hermione. You either understand or you don’t. And you said you wouldn’t hound me.”

Hermione sighed. She didn’t know what to tell him. What _could_ she tell him? She was hardly an expert on the mysteries of death, after all. It seemed, though, that this was actually just fear of the unknown, the unfamiliar—of a situation in which Tom might not have control. Everything came back to that with him, she realized.

She didn’t know what to say, and suddenly she realized that there was no point in continuing the argument. She didn’t agree with his motives, let alone his actions, but she actually did see his perspective. It was yet another thing that in her old life had seemed so clear, straightforward, only possible to see from one perspective, but now suddenly… wasn’t.

She draped her arms around his neck again and curled against him. “I won’t,” she said. “I can’t agree, but I do follow your reasoning.” She sighed again. “I’m glad we talked.”

Tom squeezed her, but it was halfhearted. He seemed distracted. She glanced up at him. “Tom…?”

He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, and gathered his robes around himself. He picked up his wand off the side table and flicked it. The diary slid out of his school bag in the armchair and flew across the room. He caught it and turned to her.

“You said you’d do this,” he remarked, holding the book out to her.

She gasped. “You were serious!”

His eyebrows met in a peak. “Well, yes. It’s just me, Hermione. I told you when I first gave it to you that it wouldn’t possess you.”

She took the book gingerly. At once the same feeling she had felt before, before they went to Grindelwald’s manor, passed over her: the sensation of powerful, familiar, friendly magic. She breathed heavily and set it down on her desk.

“Tom, you know that in my timeline, a piece of—the other you—that was sealed into a diary possessed one of my closest friends and got her to open the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Nothing like that is going to happen.” He regarded the Elder Wand for a moment before deciding on something, then flicked it. His yew wand sailed across the room and into his hand. To Hermione’s surprise, he put the Elder Wand back in his pocket and pointed his original wand directly at the diary.

“I used this wand to create it, so I think there’s more resonance between the diary and this wand, and I don’t want to do anything that the Elder Wand might interpret as ‘defeating’ me.”

She sat down and opened the book to the middle as hesitantly as if it were a Muggle bomb to be defused. _Hello, I’m Hermione,_ she wrote nervously, her right arm resting on the blank page about halfway to her elbow.

 _Hermione,_ the book wrote back in a neat script. _It’s actually you._

Instantly something grabbed her right arm, pinning it in place. A strange, almost indescribable sensation covered her skin. It felt like tendrils of air twisting gently up her arm, though much more… personal… than air. It was something like the feeling of contact with a ghost, except that it was not cold and unpleasant, but rather, mildly warm and highly magical, almost like an electrical charge.

Hermione was appalled—and terrified. She tried her wrench her arm away, but it was as if it had been glued to the diary, and the diary to the desk. The ethereal tendrils enclosed her arm tighter.

“It _is_ trying to possess me!” she yelled at Tom furiously, fear shooting from her eyes. “It has my arm! Get it _off!”_

Tom reacted at once, but he did not hex the diary. Instead he darted forward, placing one hand on the diary and another on Hermione’s right arm.

“What are you—”

“It’s not possessing you,” he interrupted. “It’s not ‘in’ you at all. You know what Legilimency and Imperius are like. There’s nothing like that, is there?”

Hermione paused. No, there was no sense of her mind being invaded. It really was just on the surface of her arm. “Then what is it trying to do?” she demanded.

“I think it’s caressing you.” He looked amused.

Hermione stared at him in horrified amazement. “You’re seriously telling me that your Horcrux is _groping_ me?”

“I wouldn’t use that word.” He was trying hard not to laugh. “Write to it.”

“I’m having difficulty with that,” she said, a massive wave of irritation flooding her now that the immediate fear had passed.

“I don’t want to curse it,” he said. “There’s no malicious intent. Just try to write.”

Hermione sucked in her breath. This was absurd, disturbing—but it seemed that it had to be done. _Can’t move my hand,_ she wrote in tiny, stilted lettering.

Instantly the magical confinement ceased, though the ethereal tactile sensation on her arm remained. _My apologies,_ the diary wrote back.

Hermione could tell, somehow, that it— _he—_ was more amused and happy than truly apologetic. She scowled, wondering if the soul bit would detect this change in her emotional state.

 _I didn’t mean to alarm you, Hermione,_ it wrote at once. _You must understand, though. He—the rest of me—gives me new memories, including those of you, but I was unsure if I would get to touch you again. The last memories I experienced corporeally are of you being, shall I say, rather judgmental. And then you shoved this vessel away. I was not at all sure._

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock and dismay. This piece of Tom’s soul—of _him_ —was cut off from sensory input unless someone was writing in the diary or it—he—was exploring some of the memories. It must have sensed the change in her emotions, for immediately she felt the ghostly caress over her arm, apparently trying to comfort her.

 _Are you… all right?_ she wrote. _Existing like this?_

 _That’s my girl, always concerned for my well-being._ There was another airy stroke over her skin, this one closer to her collarbone. She shivered.

 _My, our, however you choose to see it. Language is insufficient to describe me, of course._ The tone was cocky and sardonic now, Hermione could tell.

 _I’m sorry about your situation,_ she wrote.

There was a pause. Then—

_I’m not a victim, Hermione. I was connected—united—with the whole when we made the choice._

That was true, she realized. This was Tom too. But—

 _It’s still a hard fate,_ she wrote.

 _We knew that this would happen to some part of us. Granted, I didn’t have any idea what it would feel like, but I’m keeping us alive. It’s quite a distinction. Besides, “he” continues to add new memories to the vessel, and if you write regularly, then I’m not deprived. It’s not like “he” put me into a metal object with no way of interacting except getting in people’s minds—and then shut the vessel in the dark for decades, or made it share living space with a lethal curse, or tried to drown it in vile potion. It’s no wonder the bit you dealt with was so hostile and immediately got into every mind available. I wouldn’t do that to you—unless, of course, you’d like to converse with “him” in Parseltongue. Hmm, there’s a thought…._ There was a strong current of amusement throughout the words.

 _This really isn’t very funny to me,_ Hermione wrote.

_Oh, try to enjoy a little dark humor, dear._

_Must everything be dark with you?_

_Well, yes, naturally. Now, on the subject of dark humor, I’ve never had a pen pal, so I’m not entirely sure of the proper form for correspondence. Though I suppose I’m rather more than that to you, of course. What should I say? “Write back soon”? Insipid, but it gets the idea across well enough. Write back soon, Hermione, and do make sure that “he” continues to add memories._

The tactile sensations on her arm suddenly vanished.

_Until later, Hermione._

Hermione hesitated for a second before replying.

_Later, Tom._

The diary closed itself.

She turned to him, breathing deeply. “That… wasn’t so bad after all.”

“No hostility, then?” His voice was confident and assured of the answer.

“No,” she admitted. “Just profound arrogance, a sense of humor rather lacking in empathy, and the idea that I can be ‘caressed’ without asking permission. But then, it _is_ quite literally you.”

He smirked. “You know, I rather think you _want_ me to do again what I did a couple of hours ago, the way you’re speaking to me. Of course,” he continued casually, “I would let the balance accumulate first.”

“Of course you would.”

He went over to her bedside table, opened the drawer, placed the diary in it, and locked it with a strong spell. “I’ll try to come here every day,” he said in a suddenly more serious tone. “Not only to keep our relationship, ah, _active,_ but I’ll want to put new memories into it—and will probably do most of the writing. I’m the one who’s used to keeping a journal, and I realize it would get awkward for you.”

“You could say that,” Hermione muttered, remembering the strange ethereal sensation on her arm and the bizarre experience of carrying on a written conversation with a bit of Tom—which had his personality—while he was standing in the room.

He did not respond to that. “We should probably head back to the Great Hall, though. It’s a Hogsmeade weekend, and although I would prefer to stay here all day—and I am sure you would too—” He raised an eyebrow at her.

She blushed. It was all the reply he needed.

“Thought so,” he said smugly. “Unfortunately, we should probably put in an appearance somewhere in the village. But I’m thinking a few shots of firewhisky might be quite good enough for an encore.”


	21. Important Alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading between the lines, I know at least a couple of you have wanted more of this. So, the Knights of Walpurgis. I've made one more fic length extension, and I think this will be the last one. Finally, happy birthday to everyone’s favorite dark bastard.

Tom and Hermione quickly got dressed and tidied themselves up so it would not be obvious to the general public what they had recently been up to. He gazed at her admiringly as she brushed through her hair. She caught him gazing at her from his reflection in the mirror and turned around, an eyebrow raised in surprise. He stared back, meeting her gaze unashamedly, and grinned. The fact that he did not object to being caught openly admiring her brought a smile to her face. Maybe there was a reason to remain with him other than just to try to keep him from turning darker….

They exited the Room of Requirement, each feeling generally content. And about five seconds after the magical door vanished into the wall, that contentment shattered.

“Someone’s up here,” Tom said, his face darkening into a glare. He grabbed the wand out of his pocket.

Hermione heard footsteps as well somewhere around the nearest corner. She hurried to catch him as he strode forward angrily.

They rounded the corner and found themselves face to face with Roland Lestrange. He looked startled and very alarmed, very much like someone who had just been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

Tom flicked the wand at him, his features set. Lestrange was flung against the castle wall. Tom held him there with magic, his wand fixed in place, glaring at him.

“Tom,” Hermione said. “This is a little exce—”

“What are you doing?” Tom snarled at Lestrange.

Lestrange avoided Tom’s gaze. “I’m not doing anything, Riddle! I just got lost.” He forced out a chuckle. “This damned castle.”

Tom scowled. “What were you even _looking_ for up here?”

“Nothing specific,” Lestrange said at once. “Look, Riddle, if you meet Green up here, it’s really none of my business—”

“You’re damned right it isn’t,” Tom snarled. He flicked the Elder Wand again, and Lestrange sank to the ground. He got on his feet quickly and stared up at Tom. “I had better not see you prowling around without good reason again. Get out of here.”

Lestrange gave a frightened but angry glare to Tom and Hermione before dashing off.

Tom turned to her. “He’s lying.”

“You don’t say.” It was fairly apparent to Hermione as well.

“He can’t know that this is—where you stay,” Tom said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “The Fidelius Charm and all. But if he saw you—or me—spending a lot of time on this floor, he might have taken to lurking around.”

“For what possible purpose?”

Tom considered. “Probably something pathetic. He thinks we _rendezvous_ on this floor, evidently, from what he said. He probably thinks he can get tawdry photographs, or report us to Slughorn or something stupid like that.” He scoffed. “Sluggy would just take that as a reason to start issuing wedding invitations.”

_“What?”_

Tom gave her a sly look. “It can’t be a secret to you what the old Slug hopes for. He dropped allusions to it even when all I wanted was to violate and defile your _mind.”_

She gave him a withering glare at his verbiage. He smirked back defiantly.

“I do remember what you’re talking about,” she said, frowning. “I didn’t like it at the time.”

He stopped walking abruptly. “At the time?” he repeated. “Am I to presume, then, that you wouldn’t mind it now?”

Hermione scowled. “I don’t know whether you’re joking, disdainful, or serious about the topic, so I’m really not inclined to have this discussion. If you want to talk about Lestrange, that’s different.”

Tom shrugged and continued walking. “I’ll keep an eye on him. If he shows his ugly inbred face up here again, he’ll wish he hadn’t. I am sure he’s more loyal to his _daddy_ and Arcturus Black than to me, but if he starts to actually act against me, he’ll regret it.” The invective and vague threats were uttered in confident staccato.

Hermione turned away. She almost wished she hadn’t changed the topic.

* * *

All Hogsmeade, it seemed, wanted a moment with the heroes of wizarding Britain, and they were utterly indifferent to whether or not said heroes desired such attention. Hermione had hoped to get drinks in the Three Broomsticks, but that was entirely out of the question, she learned when an approximately 45-year-old witch took a flash photograph of Tom without his consent and a balding middle-aged wizard kept offering to buy her drinks. His fingers twitched around the Elder Wand, and she had her own in hand as well by the wizard’s third unwanted offer. She wasn’t sure which one of them Tom would curse first, though. _Probably whichever of them I don’t curse myself,_ she thought darkly.

At last she thought she might have understood what Harry went through all his life—and then she felt a pang. If she succeeded—and it appeared very much as if she would—he wouldn’t be a celebrity in the future. He would be a normal young wizard whose concerns were schoolwork, friends, and Quidditch.

Hermione did not want to think too hard about Harry or her other friends. If she had to live out these years—and it seemed increasingly probable that she would—then it was just too painful to contemplate. The Time-Turner had anchored her existence in this time, so she couldn’t create a paradox no matter what she did. It was a brute fact even if she didn’t make the trip “next time,” and even if she didn’t exist in the new timeline. Dumbledore had still seemed confident that Fawkes would transport her to the past the “next time around,” but if that happened, then her friends and family would lose her. It might be better if she weren’t even born in this timeline, she thought sadly, tramping through the dirty snow to the Hog’s Head for some privacy.

Tom opened the filthy door for her, bringing her mind back to the present—and very welcome it was. She stepped into the dingy pub.

A few shifty glares met her and Tom’s eyes, but their owners quickly returned to their drinks. It seemed that even in 1945, this pub catered to drunks and people who did not wish to be seen. Hermione headed toward the bar with Tom, relief filling her face as no one reached for her arm or flung themselves in front of her.

They settled in the farthest corner of the bar, quite a distance from the door or windows, if anyone could see through the dusty glass well enough to identify them. The bartender leered down at them. Hermione swallowed a knot as she realized that it was Aberforth Dumbledore, albeit much younger-looking than she had ever seen him.

“You two had better not bring that circus in here with you,” he grunted rudely. “I don’t want it in my pub.”

Hermione winced, terrified for a second that Tom would take personal offense and try to hex Aberforth. But to her surprise, he met Aberforth’s glare with a smug one of his own.

“We’re in here specifically to escape it,” he said.

Aberforth grunted. “The usual, then?”

“Yes, and also for Hermione.”

“Wait, what did you just order?” Hermione cut in as Aberforth turned away. “I didn’t know you came in here. You never visited this place with me before.”

“I used to have the Knights meet with me in here. And I ordered Ogden’s Old,” Tom said. “Appropriate, given that I’m going to be working for his descendant.”

She scowled. “Do you _know_ that or are you just assuming? I haven’t received any owls from the Ministry.”

Tom gave her an arch look but did not answer. Aberforth shoved the rocks glasses before them and bustled off, clearly of the mind that it was best to leave the two celebrities in peace rather than draw attention to them by hovering. Tom sipped his whiskey.

“I asked you a question, Tom Riddle.”

“Keep it down,” he muttered. “And, fine—I have had an owl from the Ministry.”

Hermione sucked in her breath, gripping her glass hard. “With a job offer?”

He nodded, regarding her face appraisingly.

She glared at him, then downed some of the firewhisky. “I haven’t,” she spat. “That’s rather unfair. You told everyone that _we_ dueled Grindelwald. They shouldn’t know—”

He shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll get one. Then, too, you must know that the Ministry have had their eyes on me for a year or two, thanks to Sluggy.”

“What job did they offer you?”

One corner of Tom’s mouth edged upward, and he was about to answer when a voice started calling out his surname.

They both whirled their heads around. Vincent Rosier was making his way toward their side of the bar, clutching a drink.

“Sit down and shut up,” Tom snarled at him as he approached. “We’re in here because we don’t want everyone bothering us.”

Rosier sat down on Tom’s opposite side. Hermione regarded him suspiciously. He was a short, slight boy, with brown hair the color of his sister’s. He wasn’t unattractive, and if she hadn’t had the unfairly handsome Tom right next to her—or been involved with such a manifestly possessive person—or had an unpleasant history with Rosier, he might have been nice to look at. But all those things were true, so instead she fixed him with a disapproving glare.

“Well?” Tom said. “Have you finally decided to pick a side?”

Hermione’s ears pricked up. Clearly something had been going on behind the scenes that she was not aware of. She recalled that the morning after Tom had murdered Pollux Black, he and Rosier had been chatting in front of the hearth in the Slytherin common room. She had not thought much about it at the time, but maybe that was the beginning.

“My dad has,” Vincent Rosier muttered in an undertone. “He’s done with Mr. Black—politically, of course. The thing with my sister, that’s still on. But”—he lowered his voice even more—“he never agreed with Black and Lestrange about Green.” He gave Hermione a furtive look. “And then when Mr. Black kept insisting that Mr. Pollux had to have been murdered—well, all due respect to him, but my dad thinks he’s slipping into the old Black pattern.”

“The old Black pattern?” Hermione repeated.

“Lots of people believe that there’s a streak of madness in the Black family,” Tom said impassively, taking a sip of firewhisky. Rosier glanced worriedly around the pub to ensure that no one was listening, and Tom smirked faintly at Hermione and winked while Rosier wasn’t looking.

Hermione wanted to slap him. This was classic Riddle, setting up a situation that would play off people’s existing prejudices—some of which apparently had some basis in fact. She could not help but recall the screaming portrait of Walburga from her own time, or the self-destructive behavior of Sirius—or the manic sadism of Bellatrix.

“Well, anyway, my dad and Malfoy have decided to support you—and Green.”

“Even knowing we aren’t purebloods?” Tom said snidely. “Shocking.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Rosier met Tom’s gaze with his own. “No offense, but some of us have figured it for years. This isn’t about—look, Riddle, if what you reported about Grindelwald is right, then even Mudbloods are really half-bloods. And—that’s all right. That’s fine. They are descended from wizards, but it just… skipped generations.”

Hermione was disgusted. Releasing the information that Grindelwald’s researchers had found had indeed produced the effect she had hoped for—a slight adjustment in attitudes among some of the pureblood extremists—but only because it forced them to fit Muggle-borns into a category that they could somewhat respect, not because it actually changed their prejudices.

_Well,_ she thought philosophically, _at least it did something._

“I mean… the Blacks, some of them really _have_ been mad,” Rosier said in a low whisper. “There was that old witch who wanted to be able to _hunt_ Muggles. I don’t like Muggles, but that’s just crazy. Wizarding Secrecy would be….” He trailed off. “The point is, my dad and Malfoy—and I—want you to know that we are not with Black and Lestrange anymore and we support your career in the Ministry.”

Tom regarded Rosier haughtily. “I’m pleased to know that,” he said. “Now, my question for you is, does Lestrange know it?”

“I think he suspects.”

Tom nodded. “I’m not surprised. I am going to call a meeting in a few days, because I want to find out who might have replaced your family and the Malfoys in Black’s group—and find out where everyone’s loyalties lie,” he growled. He gave Rosier a wry smile. “You chose well.” He finished his drink and wrapped an arm pointedly around Hermione’s waist. “You understand, too, that this means there will be no disrespect of any kind shown to _her.”_

“Of course,” Rosier said hurriedly. “As I said, my dad thought Mr. Black was wrong about her some time ago. And I’m sorry,” he said perfunctorily to Hermione.

This entire conversation had been reminding Hermione increasingly of listening to Draco Malfoy. Vincent Rosier’s “pledge” had apparently been based on orders—direct or implicit—from his father, and it did not impress her. From the brief disdainful looks she caught on Tom’s face, it wasn’t impressive to him either. Still, she accepted Rosier’s apology with a forced smile. He looked relieved, like someone who had just been interrogated, and he finally pushed his glass forward on the bar and scurried off.

Once he was out of the pub, Hermione turned to Tom with a raised eyebrow. “It’s _fascinating_ what you get up to behind my back. That didn’t surprise you a bit, did it?”

“Nope,” he said with a grin.

“You didn’t tell me.”

He shot her a level gaze. “You weren’t even talking civilly with me until we paid Grindelwald a visit, for one. And for another, I knew the _direction_ it was taking, but apparently the little twerp needed the final push from _Daddy.”_

“And that’s all right with you?”

“Vincent Rosier is a follower,” Tom said disdainfully. “He follows his father’s lead, he followed Lestrange, and now, because his father is no longer with Black, he wants to follow me. He is a sycophant.”

“And you trust him?” Hermione said in disbelief.

“Trust?” Tom repeated with a smirk. “Hermione, this is _politics._ Of course I don’t trust him in the way that you mean. But in the short term… yes. I suspect he wants to be my ‘lieutenant’ of sorts. He knows I’m going to be in DMLE, and he really wanted a job there and probably thinks ingratiating himself with me is his best bet.”

She frowned. “And if he switches sides eventually?”

“I don’t think he will, but I’m good at reading people, and he’s unsubtle. Besides,” he said with a shrug, “if I’m going to be in politics, I can’t treat everyone with the true level of contempt that I feel for them. I need… associates.”

Hermione lowered her voice to be inaudible to anyone else. “I understand that, but I can’t say I’m thrilled that you’re still enlisting the people you called ‘parasites’ and ‘troglodytes’ before. In my timeline, they changed your views.”

“As you heard, the opposite is happening in _this_ timeline. Rosier _chose_ to follow a known half-blood and to say something accepting about ‘Mudbloods.’ This is because I have chosen to consolidate power within the system that Rosier and his ilk respect. As an outlaw, my only power would be in gathering a following, so I’d have to adjust my views to please _their_ base little impulses. In the system, _I_ am the one with the power to shape views.”

Hermione frowned, but it was a contemplative frown. She actually felt rather relieved. “That does make sense,” she acknowledged.

“I’m going to be Minister,” he said smugly. “And to do that, I’ll have to cultivate delegates. Of course I don’t trust Rosier as anything more than an ally of convenience, and I certainly don’t intend to let any of the idiots change my mind. I’m not _fifteen_ anymore, a desperate little outcast trying to fit in.” He regarded Hermione with a strangely deep look. “I’m guessing that’s all I ever was in your timeline.”

Sometimes he had an insight that was scarily profound, she thought. “That’s… not a bad way of putting it,” she admitted. “It’s good that you’re going to be more than that.”

He preened.

Then something else he had said triggered a chain reaction in her memories. “You want to be Minister,” she continued. She fixed him with a level gaze. “What do you think you’re going to be first? Before Rosier turned up, you were about to tell me what job you had been offered.”

He smirked once again. “Well,” he drawled, “I’ve actually had more than one position discussed. The Head of International Magical Cooperation had one of his aides owl me… but of course, my ideas fit best in Magical Law Enforcement.”

For a moment, Hermione contemplated the jaw-dropping irony and hypocrisy of Tom as an employee of that department.

“Ogden knows, and he’s… deciding where would be best to place me. They’ll probably get to you after I’m settled.”

* * *

The meeting of Tom’s “Knights” took place Wednesday night in an unused classroom in the dungeons. Hermione was determined to make an appearance, if only to show these entitled boys that she was not just Tom’s girlfriend, but was fully involved with his plans. He was a bit surprised when she turned up, but a grin quickly formed on his face.

“It’s good that you kept your robes on,” he murmured, running a hand down her wide sleeve. “We always wear robes. It’s more wizardly.”

Tom kept the lights very dim in the room, and as the boys filed in—all wearing their school robes—the flickering candlelight did provide a very atmospheric environment. They sat down in desks at the front of the room, while Tom stood in front of the teacher’s desk.

“You stay next to me,” he whispered into Hermione’s ear. “You are above them.”

Eager little Rosier sat at his desk and gazed at Tom exactly like a conscientious student. Hermione stifled a laugh at the thought. If Tom hadn’t blotted his copybook with Dumbledore so completely, he might have become a teacher instead of a politician.

There were only three other attendees. Hermione recognized Avery, whose presence surprised her. She would have picked him as the likely new ally for the Black and Lestrange cohort. There were also two sixth year Slytherin boys, Magnus Wilkes and Patrick Greengrass. Roland Lestrange was absent, as she had expected.

“Nott,” Tom muttered under his breath. “He’s the one.”

Hermione gazed down the row. She had never made a point of remembering who all these boys were, because she did not like them and had never had any objection to avoiding them as Tom wished, but she did remember the usual number. And now that he mentioned it, she noticed that Claudius Nott was indeed the other missing Knight.

“All right,” Tom said, scowling. “We are called to order. If Lestrange and Nott show up, they are late. Does anyone know if they intend to make an appearance?”

Rosier spoke up. “They don’t.”

Tom’s fingers gripped the Elder Wand instinctively. “Very well. Nott’s father is with Arcturus Black and Pierre Lestrange, I presume.”

Rosier nodded.

“We are at a crossroads, then,” he continued. He took Hermione’s arm. “The four of you have shown loyalty to me by attending. Rosier informs me, in fact, that Black and Lestrange—senior—are still opposed to me, even after the defeat of Grindelwald by Hermione and me. The time may come when the four of you will have to choose between supporting us politically or supporting Black and his cabal. You know my former plans, and you know how they have changed. Can I expect your allegiance?” He stared at each boy in turn in a way that made Hermione almost shudder.

Rosier nodded at once. “Of course,” he replied quickly.

Greengrass and Wilkes also offered their support. Avery hesitated.

“Is there a problem?” Tom asked coolly.

“I… I don’t want to be _against_ you, but I just… I mean, I feel like I started some of it by bringing up Dumbledore’s friendship with Grindelwald last term,” he hedged. “I’m sorry, Green,” he added in an aside to Hermione.

“Then to make amends, you should want to be fully on my side rather than neutral,” Tom said.

“I don’t know if I even want to _be_ in politics,” Avery muttered. “My dad told me that Mr. Malfoy just wanted to concentrate on his business affairs and starting a family. I don’t think I want anything to do with the Ministry, after all this.”

Tom stared levelly at the boy. “I certainly don’t want my associates to have the reputation of not wanting to be where they are,” he said. “If you don’t want to be in the Ministry, then you’d best find another way to support me. You _do_ owe me for spreading false rumors about Hermione.”

“I understand,” Avery gulped.

Tom stared straight ahead. “Anyone else have stipulations?”

The other three boys shook their heads quickly.

“Good,” Tom said, his lips curling into a dark smile. “I will remind you—you are agreeing to support me over the Black alliance, if it should ever come to that.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a parchment. It contained a list of names, each followed by a blank line for a signature.

Hermione averted her eyes from that parchment. It contained a variant of the hex that she had put on the membership list for Dumbledore’s Army. Telling him about the idea wasn’t one of her proudest moments, but Tom had wanted to subject them periodically to Legilimency to ascertain their continuing loyalty, and she had not cared for that at all. He had been quite impressed with her idea. She wasn’t sure if it should be considered a compliment.

The boys signed the list with varying degrees of eagerness. Tom rolled the parchment back up and placed it in his pocket with a satisfied smile. He dismissed the meeting.

Hermione turned to him as the boys filed out. “I support you too,” she said quietly. “I should sign.” It seemed only fair that she too should be under the threat of the hex. She had been in fifth year.

“Absolutely not. You aren’t my subordinate,” Tom said at once. “And I don’t require a loyalty oath from you to trust you. You know that. You know _all_ my secrets.” He leaned over and placed a kiss on her forehead.

She wondered if she should have pressed the issue, but it was probably pointless, and in any case, his words made too much of an impression on her.

* * *

From that moment onward, Tom regarded Roland Lestrange openly as an enemy. Claudius Nott was also apparently on Tom’s enemy list, though most of his venom was reserved for Lestrange.

“Nott’s father is a blood-purity fanatic,” Tom said dismissively. They were in the Room of Requirement, and Hermione was getting ready for a Slug Club dinner while Tom expounded. “He wrote a book about what families were ‘truly’ pureblood and which ones were not, in his opinion. My _illustrious_ mother’s line made the cut. They might have bred with their own nieces and lived as low as Muggle gutter trash, but by Merlin’s staff, their blood was pure.”

Hermione shuddered, remembering what Harry had once told her about the house of Gaunt. “So Nott is another one who’s just following his father,” she said, focusing on that instead. She fastened a strand of silver beads behind her neck.

Tom nodded. “Once they launch their own careers, that might change. Especially once I start there,” he added.

“But Lestrange—”

“Lestrange is a special case,” he said. “He doesn’t like you, and he _really_ dislikes me. He was the first one to try to bully me in my first year, and the only way I could get him to stop was by showing him superior force—and superior magic. That’s how it has been for over six years. Some ancestor of his was Minister, and he thinks that entitles him to the job when he wants it even though his magic is pathetic.”

“Fortunately for me,” Hermione muttered, remembering the time Lestrange used the Cruciatus Curse on her in the hallway. She extended her arm to him. “Shall we?”

They left the Room of Requirement and headed downstairs. As they approached the lowest level, they heard rapidly pattering footsteps ahead. Tom quickened his pace, a frown forming on his face.

At the ground level, they reached the person pattering. It was Lestrange. The frown on Tom’s face deepened threateningly.

“Walked down the stairs pretty damn fast, didn’t you? Like you wanted to get away? You’d better not have been lurking around again,” he said in a menacing tone.

Lestrange glared back. “Or what, Riddle? You don’t own the flipping castle.”

Tom advanced, drawing the Elder Wand. “I hoped you would have learned at age eleven not to challenge me. It seems that your skull is _hopelessly_ thick, though.”

Lestrange turned to Hermione with a sneer. “No, _you_ are hopelessly _arrogant._ You think that because you have a few no-name Ministry bureaucrats in your corner, and Slughorn looks away when you go up there to fuck your girlfriend like some Muggle slag—”

Hermione’s eyes popped. Furious, she reached instinctively for her wand to hex the arsehole. Tom was faster.

He slashed the Elder Wand through the air. Lestrange was pinned to the wall again, and this time it was with a curse that hurt. He moaned, trying to clutch at his gut, but his arms would not move.

“You _really_ don’t want to finish that comment,” Tom growled. “In fact, you’ve said too much already.” He flicked it again, and Lestrange groaned louder.

Tom’s life dots were red, Hermione noticed. So did Lestrange.

“What the hell is wrong with your eyes?” he managed to get out.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat.

Tom dropped the spell, and Lestrange sank to the floor. Tom regarded Lestrange with unease, turning the knobby wand around in his hands. His pupils continued to gleam scarlet, and his face was expressionless.

“Tom—?” Hermione said hesitantly.

He directed the wand at Lestrange, who was staring out in evident fright. _“Confundus.”_ Lestrange’s face slackened, and his eyes became unfocused.

Hermione felt a surge of relief that Tom had not cast anything more than the necessary, and without being told. Then she noticed that he was still staring at Lestrange, who gazed back at him in confusion.

“Yes, I think so,” he said under his breath, almost as if talking to another person. He raised the wand. _“Ava—”_

“Tom!” Hermione exclaimed. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

Tom stopped halfway through the curse. He blinked. His face cleared. He looked down at the wand, sudden concern filling his features.

A second later, Slughorn rounded the corner. Tom’s eyes, now normal-looking, widened in alarm at what he had almost done. If he had finished that curse, Slughorn would have witnessed him killing a classmate. He shot a wary glance at the wand before going to his teacher.

“Professor, I don’t think Lestrange will be able to make it,” he said at once in earnest tones. “We found him here, in this state.” He stepped aside and gestured at the Confunded Lestrange, who stared back at Slughorn with an idiotic grin on his face.

“Oh dear,” Slughorn said. “Yes, you and Hermione should go on to the dinner. Ogden is there—you should sit with him, of course—and I’ll see that Lestrange goes to the infirmary. Unfortunate, that.”

Tom turned to Hermione, who took his arm once more. She shot him a pointed look when they were out of Slughorn’s hearing on the dungeon level.

“I know,” he said, not needing elucidation. “It’s that wand. But that’s another trick I can recognize now. I’m sure there is an early stage of mastery in which you have to learn all its tricks.” He sounded like he was trying more to reassure himself than her.

They entered Slughorn’s office and took the seats that had been reserved for them with place cards. Sure enough, Tom’s was on one side of Bob Ogden. Slughorn’s own seat was on the other side. Hermione could not help but note the preference given to Tom. She remembered that Tom had been in correspondence with some Ministry wonks already, but she still had not. What were they waiting for?

Tom was introducing Ogden to her, his charm turned on for the benefit of his probable future boss. Hermione managed a smile when the Ministry official turned to her.

“It’s quite an honor to meet you,” Ogden said as they shook hands across Tom.

“Likewise,” she said.

Ogden turned back to Tom. “Well,” he said in a voice low enough that none of the other early arrivals could hear, “I’ve cleared it with the Minister—no trouble at all, of course, just a required formality.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed—white, Hermione noticed. “That’s excellent,” he breathed. “It’s quite an honor and I do appreciate it.”

“You’ve earned it,” Ogden said.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione cut in, “but you’re talking about a Ministry job, I’m guessing?”

“Deputy Advisor to me—pending Outstanding NEWT scores in Defense, Potions, and a third subject, not that there’s any danger of _that_ not happening,” Ogden said. He shot Tom a grin. “It’s uncommon for someone to start at such a high-level post, but if anyone deserves it, it is one of you two. I’ve thought for some time that the Ministry needed younger blood in a few of the important posts, too—helps break up calcification.”

Tom smiled modestly. Hermione knew better than to believe it was anything but a front.

“Well,” she said in measured tones, “I’m certainly very happy for Tom. I was wondering, though—do I need to formally apply at the Ministry for work?”

Ogden looked confused. He gazed from Hermione to Tom and then back to her. “I—of course, if you want to start at the Ministry at once, I can consult with the other Department Heads and look into possible fits.” His tone was suddenly very awkward. “Shall I do that?”

Tom cut into the conversation. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ogden. I haven’t discussed everything openly with her. I was waiting for things to be… finalized. At least, finalized pending my NEWT scores.”

Ogden looked manifestly relieved. “Oh, I see. Certainly.”

Slughorn entered the office, and all private conversation fell to a hush. Things were starting to make sense to Hermione, however, the more she thought about it, and she resolved to have a little discussion with Tom as soon as she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a larger version of the picture [here](http://betagyre-penname.tumblr.com/post/146375895406/illustration-4). Click on the picture in the link!


	22. Picture Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my pal bainsidhe for reading over one part of this and improving the wording of some of it.
> 
> Here is more Tom/Hermione, with a very important development—and another M-rated scene. Nothing kinky about this one. We are quickly approaching the endgame, and everything plot-related in this chapter is significant.

After Slug Club, Hermione intended to corner Tom in the Room of Requirement and make him explain just what he had been telling the Ministry officials. He apparently anticipated her plans, because he simply gave her an innocent peck on the cheek and moved toward the door.

“Wait just a minute,” she protested. “You told Ogden that you hadn’t discussed ‘everything’ openly with me. Just what exactly is ‘everything’?” She put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

“Not tonight,” he said heavily.

“Tom, you said you would tell me things.”

“I’m not going to keep this from you,” he said. “It’s just… I’m bloody tired, Hermione, and it’s not a simple subject. Another night.”

“I won’t forget,” she promised as he made for the door again.

He turned around and smiled faintly. “Neither will I.”

* * *

Several days passed, each night ending with Tom giving an excuse for why he did not want to bring up the topic. It was obviously procrastination, Hermione thought with increasing impatience. She was reasonably sure she knew what was going on anyway, and she wished he would just come out with it. If he was ashamed of it, then he shouldn’t have done it, she thought. And if not, what was he waiting for?

He was aware that she wanted to question him, and he did not even give her the opportunity to capture him in bed while he was feeling satisfied and open. For the remainder of the week, and after one Hogsmeade weekend, he ended the day with a comparatively chaste embrace and kiss. It was exasperating.

Finally, on Monday night, he stayed in the room late.

She noticed and put down the book she was reading. She met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me now?” she asked.

“I was waiting for something,” he said, “but yes.”

“Good,” she said.

He smiled. “I’m sorry about the Slug Club dinner, first of all. It wasn’t my intention to make it awkward for you or make you worry about things. Ogden understood, though, after I explained to him.”

“Tom—”

“You need to remember that I’m not like other people,” he continued, getting up from his armchair. He faced the fireplace. “Most of the ‘romance’ in this school is immature and facile, just like the people involved… so it’s quickly over. And most of the boys from the old families are betrothed to pureblood girls by fourteen, and the girls are supposed to remain completely chaste, even with the boys they are going to marry. But their fiancés use other girls of ‘impure’ blood for temporary pleasure before they get married. In fact, I think it’s actually _expected.”_

“Tom, that does not surprise me in the slightest,” Hermione said cynically. “But where are you going with this?”

“Well, I think it’s base and hypocritical,” he said. “To be consistent, they should be disgusted at the idea of sharing their bodies with anyone who doesn’t have wizard blood in all branches of their family for a thousand years. But my point is, _I_ don’t think that way. I actually think sex would be a sordid, degrading thing to do—”

Hermione glared at him. “I see. Thanks.”

He glared back. “—with anyone _except you._ Thus why I didn’t do it. But it also means that you aren’t some pleasure toy that I’m going to drop after we finish school. You should not worry about that, and I regret that it seems you did.” His features morphed into a grin. “Frankly, I want you too much to _permit_ you to leave me.”

“Permit me, Tom?” she asked, an eyebrow raised. “Old families aside, I would have assumed this society was more progressive than Muggle society for young women—”

“It is, of course,” he said, as if it should be obvious to anyone that wizards did something better than Muggles. “At least for young women who aren’t the spawn of moneyed incest, as you say. This has nothing to do with your being a witch. I just don’t want to give you up. Not to your own anger, not to… anything. If you found a way to go back to your old time, I would go after you and I wouldn’t stop until I had you back.” He smirked momentarily, but it faded.

She too managed a brief, faint smile at this declaration. “Tom, that… means a lot to me… but it won’t be required. I doubt I’ll be able to return. I don’t think I’m supposed to, and I don’t even want to. There would be nothing familiar to go back to. The world I knew is gone. Everything I have now is here.” There. It was said. The reality that had gradually been intruding more and more on her consciousness these months was now acknowledged.

He looked pleased. “Well, that’s perfect. You’re here, you have to remain here, and I can see that you get your due. In a few years, I’m going to be Minister for Magic.”

Despite that she knew he wanted this and was well on his way, Hermione was still amazed at the matter-of-fact tone in which he made the statement, said as casually as if he had said “I’m going to have dinner.”

He sat down in the chair again and continued. “I’m going to, and I’m going to _do_ something about the situation that the wizarding world is in, and… you have to be involved too. You know how it all could go wrong. And it’s as I said, I want to have you with me. I want you beside me, able to put your talents to use. People like us should be in charge, and I want to make that happen.”

“Tom, what are you saying?” Hermione’s heart thudded, and she had a feeling she knew where this was headed, but she had to be sure.

“You know exactly what I’m saying. You and I should get married.”

Hermione closed her eyes. There it was. That was why she didn’t have an offer from the Ministry. She had no doubt of it. They figured she wouldn’t “need a job” with such an important and well-paid husband. Even Tom himself had assumed this, since he thought her concern had been about being used and discarded. Wizards might technically be more advanced than Muggles in gender relations, since she knew there had been many female leaders in government and académe by this time, but clearly there was still a long way to go.

She opened her eyes and glared at him in indignation. “So you want a partner to help advance your ambitions. That certainly explains a few things. When Ogden offered you the Deputy Advisor position, was this a condition?”

The eagerness vanished at once, and Tom looked as if she had slapped him in the face. “Excuse me?” he said. His words were chilly and… a little broken, she realized with surprise, but she continued to plow ahead.

“It really is unusual to offer such an important job to an eighteen-year-old, ‘hero’ or no. In my time, someone I knew—a Head Boy—became an office assistant to a Department Head. He had the tasks no one else wanted, and the boss didn’t even know his right name.”

Tom was staring back in shock and increasing anger. She continued relentlessly.

“But perhaps you had assured Ogden that you were not just an academic prodigy, interested in policy, or a master duelist, but also _mature._ Not a ‘young bachelor’ with all _that_ implies in people’s minds. You could be trusted with senior responsibility,” she said scathingly. “You sure seemed to have an understanding with him that involved me—but that I knew nothing about. Was it that?”

His gaze hardened. “I indicated to him that you and I were—committed.”

“We weren’t even _together!”_ she exploded. “We were barely speaking! How dare you, you _presumptuous—”_

“Oh, what an exaggeration,” he scoffed. “We were _speaking._ We just temporarily weren’t… doing other things. I knew you would come around, and I was right.”

“That’s not the point,” she snarled. “You maneuvered things behind my back so that if I rejected you, you would lose face. This was all about your ambition. You used our relationship to further it, and now you think you have me backed into a corner! _That_ is the point, _Riddle.”_ She threw his surname at him as if it were a curse.

“It is not _all_ about my ambition,” he rejoined. “That’s just a bonus. I do want the job. I’m not going to deny that. But you’re not backed into a corner. _They_ would lose face now, not me, if they withdrew the offer. Why should I have settled for less, and condemned you to the same, by claiming— _falsely—_ that we weren’t serious? What would that have accomplished?”

“I don’t have an offer _at all,_ and it seems that’s because the Ministry people think I don’t need one. They think I should depend on you. As far as they know, we both dueled Grindelwald. They picked you over me.”

“Hermione, they picked me because I’m the Head Boy and they have known about me for longer.”

“Sure, that’s _all_ there is to it,” she sneered.

He glared. “It’s not _my_ fault either way. I really don’t see why it is so bloody important to you to be a flunky in the Office of Irrelevant Bollocks. You want to change the wizarding world; well, so do I. I could start that immediately in this job, and I _listen_ to you.” The fury in his face softened. “It would give you power too. I _do_ want a partner. You’re special, Hermione. You aren’t an accessory to me—or a credential. That would be demeaning—to both of us,” he added. “I did _not_ ask you this tonight because I wanted the damn _job._ I want _you.”_

Hermione stared back at him, afraid to believe.

“You’re special to me,” he said again. “I tried to tell you that at the first. I don’t want to give you up. This is not about anything else.” His eyes pleaded sincerity.

Her anger was rapidly fading, but it was being replaced by a deep melancholy at the idea of marriage to him. She cared about him, but she knew she could not always stop him from doing things she disapproved of. There were some things he would not do, because he knew he would definitely lose her if he did, but they both knew that she could not make such demands about _everything_ she didn’t like. They had an implicit compromise that he would not cross that line and she would not badger him. But that did not mean that she did not privately object. She would just have to keep it to herself to keep the peace. It was a cold prospect.

If they had grown up together as children, or someone had adopted him as a toddler, or his mother had not died, then he would have been different. She felt a pang for what he could have been if he had experienced a happy childhood with a family. Fate had bestowed upon him so many gifts—intellectual, magical, political, and, yes, physical. He should have been her ideal match. If he had grown up to understand the basic things that most people did not even have to think about, it would all have been different for them.

It wasn’t, though. _This_ was what it was like. He was dark and ruthless and always would be. She probably would never have a Ministry position higher than his, because he was determined to get the top spot and his ego could not countenance it. And he proposed marriage to her because he wanted to keep her, like a prize item in his growing collection of valuables.

She took a deep breath. “I see,” she said. “I… am sorry for thinking it was all about your ambitions, because I care about you too, and I want to be here for you. But I can’t marry someone who… doesn’t really love me. I’m sorry.” She winced and looked away as she spoke, terrified that she had offended him beyond repair this time, but it had to be said.

He sucked in his breath and stared at her. “Hermione, I don’t understand why you say that. I _want_ you. I want you to be mine forever and I—well, you _know_ what I would do for you. I would _destroy_ anyone who hurt you. I’ve never felt that way about anyone else.”

He was breathing heavily, his eyes dark and intense with feeling. She felt her heart thump. She wanted so, so much to believe what he was implying.

“I’ve let you talk to me, argue with me, in a manner that I wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else, because I want to hear what you think. And even when you’re dead wrong—”

“When you _think_ I’m dead wrong,” she cut in.

“Even when you’re wrong,” he insisted, “it doesn’t matter, because I know it’s not about having power over me or scoring a point against me. You mean well and you care about me. So I could never hurt you for it.”

“Right, because _that_ explains whipping me and making me apologize,” she said dryly.

“I didn’t say it didn’t frustrate me when you were stubborn,” he said at once. “But that wasn’t about hurting you. I don’t _want_ to harm you. It’s just… getting rid of the frustration.”

“I’m guessing it’s also ‘frustrating’ that you don’t actually want to exert total control over me, and that’s why you want to play that game in general. To pretend you do.”

“Right in one,” he acknowledged. “It’s never happened before, and I don’t understand it, but… I accept it now. You’re just—different, somehow. I have trusted you with my deepest secrets. I’ve given you the power to ruin me several times over, Hermione—do you even realize that, what that means? I don’t _do_ vulnerability. But you’ve done something to me that makes me break all my own rules.” His face was agitated and stormy. “I told you once, that diary is for the most significant year of my life, the year you arrived. _That_ is what I put my soul into and what I wanted you to have. What is all of this if not—love?” He half-spat the last word, obviously disliking its sound and all the connotations, but unable to deny his perceptions.

Hermione wanted to cry. He was close, so close to understanding, and yet there was still such a gulf between his possessive, narcissistic, dark concept of love and the one she had known all her life.

“I don’t even want to lose you to death. I _especially_ don’t want that. I have my ring and the Stone, but it’s not the same. The idea of that is….” He trailed off, looking stricken.

Hermione grimaced. His fixation on this subject made her weary. “Tom, I can’t do—what you’re hinting at. You know I can’t. And you’re getting off topic.”

Tom looked stung. “I hope you reconsider that someday, but I was just trying to explain to you what I—feel.” The word was forced out. He sighed, gathering his thoughts. “This is still strange to me, and I don’t know what it’s like for other people. I just know that if you left, or if you didn’t want me, it would be like… tearing myself apart, except much worse.” A hollow, sardonic smile briefly filled his face and then dropped. “I _need_ you,” he said in a rush. He closed his mouth at once, half afraid of what had just slipped out.

The fire crackled away in the background, but neither of them paid any attention to it. They were too lost in their own thoughts.

Hermione suddenly realized that, in his broken, possessive way, he did care for her very much. Everything about this situation was twisted, but… she wanted to help him, even now. This was still different from the history she knew, and she had to seize it, even the parts she found distasteful, or it would slip away from her for good and her travel would be for naught. Voldemort would not have cared about anyone, not even in this way. She could not let Tom turn into that. It didn’t matter so much that he _looked_ human, at least for anything other than finding his company desirable. If Tom achieved his ambitions and then turned into a murderous tyrant and dictator, he would still become Voldemort, in a way. And she was pretty sure he would do exactly that without her moderating influence.

She was not going to get her old timeline back. At this point she didn’t even want it, because it would mean that she had failed him, and that he had failed himself and become that monster again. She couldn’t stand that thought. And without the rise of Voldemort, without the violence he unleashed, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, _all_ of them would be different from how she remembered. They would not be “hers” anymore. They no longer were anyway. Neither was Dumbledore. In changing the timeline, she had lost everyone—but she had gained Tom.

There was a time when she had thought she was in love with Ron, that she would even want to marry him. That desire had vanished quite some time ago. During the time when she and Harry were alone in the tent, she had also considered the possibility that Harry was the one. He understood her better, they had at least some things in common, and he respected her. She had thought that they could perhaps make a go of it when the war was over. But then she saw him staring at the Marauder’s Map and looking for Ginny Weasley’s name each time, and she knew that would not happen either. She didn’t understand that. Ginny had been her friend, but Hermione was not blind to the fact that Ginny was inferior to her in the ways that she thought would be important to Harry. It hadn’t mattered. People did not seem to base their relationships on anything but mundane considerations or ask for more in their choice of partner. Indeed, asking for more was seen as unrealistic and naïve. Slowly, gradually, the hope of that ideal romantic love had left her.

Tom was not offering her that either. He couldn’t, and she understood that. But he was offering her something else. It was something dark, intense, and possessive, something that flashed danger signs, but so help her, she _wanted_ someone to need her as much as he seemed to. She wanted someone to need her for reasons that she could respect and reciprocate, rather than simply because he had a commonplace hormonal reaction or because she had knowledge that was useful to him. She had wanted that all-consuming sort of love. Tom was not romantic, even though he could fake the trappings of it, but all-consuming? Yes, unquestionably so.

Hermione thought again of what he might have been if he had been loved as a child. Even damaged, he was extraordinarily gifted in so many ways. Undamaged, he might have been as close to her perfect ideal as a human being could be.

 _But he would not have been mine then,_ she realized in a moment of sudden, cognizant clarity. _I wouldn’t have had to be sent back to fix anything. That ideal version of him was never meant for me. But… the person before me might be. He is damaged, but what am I?_

Twin tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

_For the Greater Good._

She got up from her chair and stood next to his. He met her eyes, his gaze hard and desperate. She sighed, reached out her arms to him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. He seemed to want to resist for a moment but quickly gave in, pulling her down into his lap.

She did not really want to look him in the eye while saying the words that were on the tip of her tongue, so she burrowed against his neck. “I understand now. Your way is not the way I’m used to seeing love expressed, but I understand. I’ll marry you after we finish school.”

He squeezed her wordlessly.

There was one last confession she had to make. She didn’t entirely want to, but after the near-debacle at the beginning, she felt that she needed to.

“And… I think I understand why you were so confident,” she said. “I guess on some level, I’ve known for a while that I would—be with you—and clearly, so have you.”

“I’ve known,” he agreed, “and I did say I wasn’t letting you go. I’m glad you’ve accepted that.” He smirked and squeezed her again.

Hermione did not choose to respond to that. She was overwhelmed by her own thoughts.

 _He never had any real doubt,_ she thought. _He cares about me, but it really is his own way, and I can’t let myself forget that, ever._

He began to kiss her face and jawline. She smiled involuntarily at the sensation and quickly moved closer, but her thoughts continued to whirl. Shouldn’t this have been _happier?_ Shouldn’t she have been… giddy?

 _Well, not with him,_ she thought at once. Giddiness was never a possibility with him. And she supposed she was happy, in a way. This was a success, of sorts, both for her broad mission and for her personal one. It was just a different sort of happiness from the usual.

 _There would be irritation and compromises with anyone,_ she thought, _but I guess people tend to forget about that part of it when they first get engaged—or married. With him, though, there’s no way I could ever forget about it. That’s bound to be a good thing. Whatever else, I’m certainly not under any illusions._

Tom suddenly stopped and drew away from her. “Oh yes,” he said, “before this gets out of hand.” He shifted her on his lap and reached for his school bag, withdrawing a small box from it. “This is what I was waiting for. It came this morning.”

Hermione instantly knew what was in the box and once again felt astounded at his presumption… or confidence. He opened it, presenting, as she had expected, a ring.

Wizards did not always follow the custom of giving diamonds, but instead, selected gemstones and designs that complemented the witch—or indicated something symbolic. This was definitely a ring that Tom had picked out to “mark” her as his. It was silver, with serpentine curls—and two tiny snakes—molded into its design, and it had a deep green emerald in the center. In the flickering firelight, Hermione noticed that the gemstone was slightly imperfect; it had a faint subsurface fissure. But of course it did.

He slid the ring onto her finger. “It’s lovely,” she remarked, observing it sparkle in the yellowish-orange light.

He resumed kissing her. “I don’t want you to take it off unless you have to,” he murmured. “I want everyone to see it and know you’re mine.”

 _Knew it,_ she thought. “It appears that the entire wizarding world knows that.”

He smirked. Then before she knew it, he had wrapped her legs around his waist and was lifting her off the chair. She instantly put her arms around his neck to help support her weight. He carried her toward the large bed and set her down gently on the mattress, getting on top himself.

“I don’t want to do anything to you tonight,” he murmured, starting on her clothing at once with admirable dexterity. “I just want to have you.”

Was he saying that purposely to try to validate his statements earlier, or did he mean it? Either way, the words sent a jolt down her body.

“Good,” she replied. He finished unbuttoning her cardigan. She reached for his suit vest when her arms were free. “That’s what I want too.”

He growled in response as he finished unbuttoning her blouse. It joined the cardigan and his vest in a heap. A moment later, she unthreaded his green and silver tie. His eyes fixed upon it for a second, and he almost seemed to reconsider his statement, but his gaze then darted to the pile of clothing to give her permission. Shaking her head, she added it to the heap. They both unbuttoned his shirt, hands meeting in the middle. He divested himself of it with a grin.

He placed his hands on her sides, just under her bra. They were strangely cool despite the perfect temperature of the room, but not too cool to be pleasant. Indeed, the contrast excited her. He stroked her skin gently, his hands sliding under her back. He unhooked her bra and tossed it to the side, then slipped his hands under her waistband and unzipped her skirt.

“Take that off. I’m busy,” he growled. He leaned over and began to draw circles with his fingertips around her breasts. She moaned but managed to slide the skirt off, along with her underwear. She straightened her legs, sidling one around his kneeling form. His eyes widened, and his fingers stilled.

“Why’d you stop?” she protested.

He did not respond with words. Instead he slipped two fingers into her wet folds, probing her center. She gasped and writhed involuntarily at the touch. He met her eyes with a delighted smirk, then bent down and placed a firm kiss on each nipple in turn, gently sucking.

 _It’s amazing how nice he can be when he wants to,_ she thought briefly.

He drew back from her. Without a word, he unzipped his trousers and pulled them off along with his underwear. “I’m going to take you,” he announced in a husky voice. “I would have done more first, because I do like watching you… _respond,”_ he said pointedly, eyes gleaming in the light, “but I want you right now.”

“Then do it,” she said. “I want you too.”

His eyes flashed at that. She couldn’t help but notice that they never gleamed red when he was pleased with her, always white.

She reached for his shoulders. He caught her left hand halfway and regarded the emerald on her finger with an intense look. Then he released her hand, held her around the waist, and slid his length into her.

She almost came then and there. It had been quite a while since he had just— _say it,_ she thought, _he used the word himself at last, however reluctantly—_ made love to her, and it was a wonderful feeling to just be joined with him. No games, no “release of frustrations,” nothing but the two of them. She was glad that he still wanted to do it this way sometimes.

“Never let you go,” he grunted. He stroked the side of her neck shakily. “Mine.”

 _That, of course,_ she thought—but she could not dwell on it, because he was moving in her and his _thoroughly_ appropriate ring was on her finger and it was, after all, true—and she liked that.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him in as deep as possible, as deep as he could go, then clenched around his cock. He groaned at the pressure and gripped her waist tighter, thrusting even harder. It created a delightful friction between them that seemed to spread waves of pleasure over her entire body.

Her breathing became short and choppy. She gasped for breath, rapidly approaching her peak. He noticed, his eyes flashing again, and responded with a deep push. She clenched her cunt around him and reached for his shoulders, gasping as she came. He followed soon after.

“Hermione,” he gasped, collapsing gently onto her as he spent himself in her. She wrapped her arms around his back, holding him as he moved up and down in tandem with her heavy breathing.

They remained like that for a while, their breaths slowing to normal. At some point he eased himself off her and rested on his side. Wordlessly, he drew her form close in a possessive embrace.

 _This is all right,_ Hermione thought peacefully. _This will be fine. I’ll be fine._

* * *

“Delightful!” Slughorn crowed. He had not sat in his chair since they had stopped by his office and given him the news. “Just as I hoped—but I wasn’t alone in that, eh, was I?” He winked at Tom and Hermione, who sat in two of the cushy armchairs in his well-appointed office. “I have to owl Barnabas… the _Prophet_ will want to do a photo spread of you, there’s so much interest.”

“Everyone loves a happy ending?” Hermione said, her words strangely brittle. Tom shot her a quizzical look.

Slughorn did not notice her tone. “Indeed they do, Hermione.” His face suddenly lit up, and he headed for a tall oak cabinet.

He was calling her by her given name, she observed. Just like he did with Tom, and would do—have done—with Harry in the future. _I really am one of his all-time favorites now,_ she thought.

“This calls for a celebration!” Slughorn exclaimed, emerging from the cabinet with a bottle in hand. “Did you know that Beauxbatons has a vineyard? I’m not supposed to tell you,” he said conspiratorially, setting the bottle of Cabernet down, “but it’s true. Their elves have made it for generations, and all profits go to the school. I’ve suggested that Hogwarts should have a nice sideline of something, and then perhaps we could improve some of the décor and draftiness of this castle…. Anyhow.” He uncorked the bottle and poured three glasses of the red wine. “A toast!”

Hermione sipped the wine lightly. It was very good, and she was not particularly surprised by Slughorn’s exuberant reaction to their news, but she did not relish the idea of a _Daily Prophet_ photograph session. It would be staged and fake, because no series of mass-published, sanitized photos could capture the reality of their “courtship”… such as it was.

 _Maybe if they took a picture of me “reading his diary,” that might come close,_ she thought darkly, _but he would never allow that._

She gazed across the short space between herself and Tom. He was drinking the wine with a satisfied look on his face. _He_ wasn’t apparently bothered by the thought of the coming spectacle. Of course, he dealt in lies as a matter of routine.

She forced a scowl off her face and returned to the excellent wine. _It’ll pass,_ she thought. _This is just a temporary annoyance. The photo spread will run, and… probably a wedding spread later…._ Her stomach curdled. No. The wizarding world would not own her wedding. There was absolutely no reason to invite reporters, and she wouldn’t have it. It would be private and quiet, and she would put her foot down about it. Let them have their ritual sacrifice with this picture set, because they wouldn’t get any more.

* * *

About a week later, a pair of owls dropped a heavy edition of the newspaper in front of Tom and Hermione at breakfast. She opened hers first, scowling, well aware of what it was. Slughorn had passed word to her from that horrid reporter Cuffe.

It was as bad as she had expected. Cuffe had arranged with the editors to give them the entire first two pages of the Social section. A series of posed, staged wizarding photographs greeted her.

They were embracing in the snow under lampposts at Hogsmeade, smiling sweetly. Hermione wanted to look away from the awed, adoring expression Cuffe’s photographer had asked her to put on her face for one of those. In another photo, they were tossing snowballs at each other.

There was a picture of them sharing a pot of tea at Madam Puddifoot’s—a place neither of them had visited once in all the time she had been here, until that point. There was also a photo of them having hot butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Of course, it just wouldn’t do for them to be photographed having Ogden’s Old Firewhisky in the far corner of the Hog’s Head, even though that was their preferred habitat in the village now and they were definitely of age.

Slughorn had suggested a picture of them in the Slytherin common room, cuddling in front of the hearth. Roaring flames and bright sparks crackled in that picture, which, Hermione supposed, was at least somewhat accurate as a snapshot of their relationship.

Hermione’s gaze turned to another one that actually did bring a slight smile to her face. It showed them exchanging a couple of harmless spells in a friendly duel, making each other collapse, laughing, into snowdrifts on the grounds of Hogwarts. That too was an expurgated picture of reality.

“I suppose it could have been worse,” she remarked, turning to the real news sections. “I was sure he was going to include that appalling ‘stolen kiss behind the greenhouses’ one—as if it could be a stolen kiss with a bloody reporter having it photographed.”

“Even Sluggy disliked that,” Tom agreed. He picked up the news section of the paper as well.

“I can’t believe you are so… _all right_ with this to-do,” she suddenly burst out. “It’s everything you dislike: facile, insipid….”

“Of course it is,” he said. “It’s done, though.”

 _“This_ part is done,” she said. “They’ll want to do something similar for the wedding itself. I don’t want that.”

“Then _say_ you want some privacy for it.”

“I fully intend to, and I’m going to make it stick.” She scowled. “If I have no say in anything else, the _day_ at least will be on my terms.”

“What?” Tom said sharply. He set down the paper.

“Forget it. It was nothing.”

He took her by the shoulder. “No, it wasn’t ‘nothing.’ What do you mean?” His stare was hard. “Are you unhappy?”

“Obviously. I dislike all this attention.”

“Is that really it?”

Hermione tried to avoid his gaze.

“Look at me, Hermione.”

Reluctantly she met his eyes. “That’s what has provoked this, but… it’s not all,” she admitted. “I just thought my life would turn out differently. I wanted to work in the Ministry.”

“You really want me for your boss?”

“…No,” she admitted. “It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“There are other things you could do. You could start your own organization. I wouldn’t expect you to be a meek housewitch. In fact, that would be a disappointment.”

She managed a faint smile at that.

“We’re fine, then?” he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.

“We’re fine,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that. It isn’t true.” She leaned into him and fingered her emerald.

It wasn’t entirely correct that they were “fine,” she thought. The biggest issue, in fact, was one she did not want to discuss with him in a public place—or, for that matter, at all, because she knew it would go nowhere. Nowhere pleasant, at least, because he would not understand her conflict. She still felt heavy and drained at the prospect of averting her eyes from things he would do that were dark and ruthless—but not dark and ruthless enough to justify repudiating him. What would it do to her over the years for her burden of dark secrets to grow ever heavier? Morality was rarely crystal clear, she knew, and it was possible to argue that the worse offense of the two would be to betray his secrets and give up on him. But how much was too much now? She was already keeping secrets for him that would have utterly appalled her moral sensibilities—that would have been unthinkable—a year ago.

_Well, at least he can’t do anything darker than he’s already done. I’m already keeping the worst secret he could give me._

Somehow that thought did not comfort her.

* * *

She found that they spent increasing amounts of time in the evenings in the Slytherin common room. In part, she supposed it was to keep up appearances; it might raise uncomfortable questions if there were long stretches of time that no one could account for the whereabouts of the school’s most famous students. And she was aware that Lestrange, at least, seemed to know that she spent time on the seventh floor. He might not be able to get into the Room of Requirement, but that was still an uncomfortable degree of knowledge. She also knew that Tom was trying to cement the loyalty of his four “vassals” as well as he could.

He still escorted her to the Room of Requirement, whether he spent the night there or not. The gesture touched her, since she knew it would be quite a long walk back if he did not stay the night. That was the case one night in late winter. He did part with a very intense kiss, leaving her lips heated and swollen, but he could not stay this time. He had prefect duties, annoyingly.

The door to the Room of Requirement materialized in the wall behind her as he left. She opened it, slipped in, and shut it at once. For some reason, she felt uneasy tonight. It was not just that Tom was not in the room with her. She could not explain it.

 _Maybe it’s him,_ she thought suddenly. _He’s going to be wandering the halls until curfew. I’m the one who’s safe._

That idea made her want to laugh. If there was anyone who could take care of himself, it was Tom.

_But the Elder Wand…._

That changed her mind. That wand had already influenced him into doing—or almost doing—two very foolish and potentially destructive things. Perhaps it had exhausted its repertoire and perhaps it hadn’t.

Hermione moved back to the door and prepared to go outside—when she heard muffled voices.

_“I need to see what Riddle sees.”_

Hermione stopped cold, her hand on the knob.

“No good,” another voice muttered. This person conferred briefly with the other person, but Hermione could not make out what they were saying.

“I need to see what Green sees,” the first voice tried.

 _It is not possible,_ Hermione thought in alarm. _It’s just not. This is a Fidelius-protected Secret._ She pressed her ear against the door, then thought better of it. If Lestrange and Nott—and she had no doubt that these were their voices—did somehow manage to get in, she would be vulnerable. She backed away and drew her wand, breathing heavily.

“It’s not going to work,” the second voice—Nott’s—said.

Lestrange swore. “It’s late anyway. We’d better call it a night before he sees we’re not in the common room.”

 _Go,_ Hermione thought, willing them to leave. She heard their footsteps fade, then collapsed against the door.

 _I’m safe,_ she told herself. _They couldn’t get in. People stood outside Grimmauld Place all day in 1997 when it was under Fidelius. It’s fine. I’m fine._


	23. Enigma Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me while I was away. I am back now, and we'll probably be back to our regular update schedule.
> 
> For the first part of this chapter, I would like to acknowledge ff.net commenter CloudyDream for bringing up Dumbledore's thoughts about Tom and Hermione's relationship, especially at this point in the story, and given his knowledge that Tom did "something bad" in Hermione's timeline.
> 
> For the rest of it, I know I haven't really foreshadowed this, but it's one thing I wanted to keep pretty close to my chest, because any clues at all would have led to the correct conclusion, I suspect.

“My dear Hermione,” Dumbledore said compassionately, “thank you so much for coming.” He pushed his candy dish forward with a smile.

Hermione had been fingering her ring. She separated her hands and took a lemon drop from the dish. She forced a smile onto her face as she met Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes. In truth, she was deathly nervous—about all sorts of things. But when the Deputy Headmaster wanted a personal meeting with her, and she was purporting to be his close relative, it behooved her to be there.

“I have been remiss in offering you my thanks for a couple of things,” Dumbledore continued.

“Your thanks?” Hermione asked, startled. She had not been anticipating that.

Dumbledore nodded. “As you know, when the wizarding world was asking me to duel Gel—Grindelwald, I did not want to do it. But I had resigned myself to it as a matter of duty, and I intended to spare him if I possibly could. I believed that if anyone else dueled him, they would kill him out of hand. I thank you for proving me wrong about that.”

Hermione managed a smile. “You’re welcome, Professor.”

“Bob Ogden, the Minister, and the Interim German Minister have agreed to incarcerate him in Nurmengard instead of Azkaban,” Dumbledore said. “This, too, is a good thing. Azkaban is a dreadful place. I have….” He hesitated for a brief minute. “As a young man, I considered a political career for a short time. I concluded it would be a mistake for me to seek that sort of power, due to the disastrous lapse in judgment that you know of. But sometimes I wonder if it was the correct decision. We have accustomed ourselves to terrible things, and the condition of our legal system is one of them. We live in a society that was founded on fear—the Statute of Secrecy was enacted out of fear—and people who are afraid are easily persuaded.”

Hermione nodded. “I think we should examine the Muggle justice system and reform ours based on it. But… fear… it’s a fine line to walk. There _are_ many more Muggles, and they do have powerful weaponry. And will have even more powerful bombs very soon.”

“Grindelwald’s records indicated that Muggle governments are indeed working on such a project,” Dumbledore said. “The Ministries have decided not to interfere with it.”

Hermione sighed. Her thoughts on dropping the bomb were not fully settled. She knew there was a calculation that a traditional war would produce many, many more casualties. She supposed it was just as well that this aspect of history would play out unaltered.

“Muggles are human too, and also prone to fear,” she said quietly. “If we do terrible things when we’re afraid, so would they.”

Dumbledore sighed heavily. “I have been trying to atone for my youthful mistake by promoting the idea that we shouldn’t be afraid of Muggles, but….” He trailed off. “I cannot forget what they did to my sister in fear, much as I might wish to.”

Hermione winced. “Maybe the best choice is a healthy respect,” she suggested. “Acknowledgment that they _are_ advanced and _can_ hurt us, but… there are some people in wizarding society who seem to forget that Muggles are also human. And that means that they have the good parts of being human as well as the bad.”

Dumbledore looked sad but content. “I think you are wise beyond your years. It gratifies me that you, instead of this prideful academic, were involved with the defeat of Grindelwald. Was it your decision not to execute him?”

Hermione was grateful for his words of thanks, but she did not like the question at the end. He seemed determined to think ill of Tom. But, she reflected, Tom _had_ wanted to execute Grindelwald—albeit reluctantly, and to protect himself rather than simply for the hell of it.

“Professor, Tom actually Disarmed Grindelwald,” she said. “I did persuade him that it was unnecessary to kill, but it was a joint decision, because he didn’t have to listen to me.”

A shadow came over Dumbledore’s face. “I have noticed that Mr. Riddle has been using a different wand sometimes. He defeated and Disarmed him at the end of the duel?”

Hermione nodded, her heart sinking. Dumbledore knew. He had already figured out that Grindelwald had indeed found the Elder Wand, as they had talked about as young men.

Dumbledore cleared his face—and it was deliberate, Hermione noticed. “Well,” he said in falsely cheerful tones, “it is a wonderful thing that he does listen to you. You have been very good for him.” He paused. “I have to ask, though—and you are free to tell me that it is none of my concern if you wish. But are you… was this your choice? Are you—happy with him?”

 _You’re right; that is none of your concern,_ Hermione thought at once with a flash of resentment. She stared back at him, trying to decide how to answer the question.

“You don’t have to—” Dumbledore began to say.

Hermione cut in. “It was my choice,” she said. “He asked me, and I could have said no.” _I did at the first,_ she thought. “As you know, I didn’t like him when I first arrived.”

“Because of something he did in your future—which I assume you changed.”

“It wasn’t one specific thing, but I think I must have changed his trajectory.”

“If I may ask—”

“He would have become like Grindelwald,” Hermione said evasively. “He never had Ministry ambitions in my timeline. And… he never had a partner. I wouldn’t have even become friends with him, much less anything else, if he had been the person I knew about from my time.” She paused. “As for being happy… I’m happy about that. I’m happy that he’s doing something productive with himself. We’ve had serious discussions about fixing the wizarding world. He cares a lot about it—and yes, he knows I am from the future, and was horrified when I explained to him what he would otherwise have become.”

“This is gratifying,” Dumbledore said gently, “but it does not answer the question of what _you_ feel about _him.”_

“It contributes,” Hermione argued. “I mean… I was able to see immediately that he has a lot of potential. But I wouldn’t have been able to like him if he hadn’t decided to put it to appropriate uses.” _With a couple of glaring exceptions,_ she thought wryly. “It was a surprise to me when I came to like him, and it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t allowed me to influence him. In my time, too, it was hard for me to ever find anyone I could talk with who shared my interests. I’m sure _you_ understand that,” she added with a sideways smile. “But he does, mostly. He listens to me and respects me. I don’t know what else to say.”

Dumbledore managed a smile. “Well. I don’t think anything else does need to be said, in that case.” He rose from his seat. “Just as long as you are happy, Hermione. The wizarding world is important, and Mr. Riddle is important, but so are you. Please don’t forget that.”

* * *

Hermione thought about the discussion all the way back to the Room of Requirement. She had very mixed feelings about all of it. She was pleased that Dumbledore did not resent not being the person to get credit for Grindelwald’s defeat, and since he _did_ distrust himself so much with power, it was probably better if he remained a well-regarded professor. It troubled her that he knew Tom had the Elder Wand and clearly did not like it. But then, she wasn’t entirely thrilled about that herself. The wand was already doing things to him. He was becoming more reckless and irrational when using it.

Dumbledore’s parting comment stuck with her as well. Her own needs _were_ important, and she was not sure if what she was doing was the best way of meeting them. The issue was that her needs conflicted with each other. She needed Tom to remain “grey,” as he was right now, and that was at least partly dependent on her remaining close to him. She was pretty much the only person he would listen to consistently. But she also needed to be happy in more personal aspects of her life, and she did not know if it would be enough to have his confidence, to have his darkly possessive form of love, and to know that she was helping him.

The real problem came back to a simple fact: He had already done the darkest thing he could do. Otherwise she could tell herself that there were clear, well-defined lines he must not cross. No blood purity politics, no murdering, and certainly no Horcruxes. It was a shell-shock to discover that she could rationalize one of the three, considering the circumstances involved with it; that another of them, the darkest one, she could somewhat overlook if he held to his word of stopping there; and that the one that _would_ be a deal-breaker was the one that was most personally offensive to _her._ What _was_ her definition of “too much” if what he had done so far wasn’t it? What might her heart allow her to turn into if her lines were so malleable? Hermione did not like to consider herself motivated by selfish considerations. She wanted to believe she was a moral person who made judgments strictly based on good and evil. And yet….

“Black. Rosier. I’ve been looking for you.”

Hermione’s thoughts suddenly deflected at the sound of Roland Lestrange’s voice. She stopped walking and hurried into the nearest dark corner. Thinking quickly, she cast a Disillusionment Charm over herself as well. Once invisible, she carefully moved toward the voices.

To her surprise, Lestrange was not talking to Vincent Rosier, but to Druella. Next to her was Walburga Black. They gazed back at him quizzically.

He looked around the hall furtively. “I really should ask you this inside,” he mumbled, heading toward a classroom door. “I don’t want Riddle to overhear.”

Well, that settled it for Hermione. Being careful not to make a sound, she pattered quickly after the group as they moved into the classroom. She got inside just as Lestrange closed the door.

 _I hope Tom isn’t looking at his list right this moment,_ Hermione thought idly. _If he sees that I’m in a room with Lestrange, he’ll assume the worst and it’ll be revealed that I’ve been spying on their conversation._ She decided to hope for the best. Tom couldn’t track her _all_ the time.

“I was wondering if either of you knew how to get into Green’s room,” Lestrange said in a low voice.

Druella and Walburga looked at each other blankly, then turned to Lestrange. “I don’t know what you mean,” Druella said. “Boys can’t get into the girls’ dorms. You know that.”

Lestrange rolled his eyes. “You _know_ what I mean, Rosier. Nott and I both know. You don’t need to pretend ignorance for us.”

“I don’t understand,” Walburga said, frowning in confusion.

Lestrange sighed. “You really can trust me. How do you get in? What is she asking of the Room of Requirement? If you don’t know, you can just say so.”

Hermione gasped silently. He shouldn’t be able to _name_ it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Walburga said slowly. “She’s going to the Room of Requirement for some reason? I don’t know anything about that. What of hers do you want, anyway?”

Something suddenly occurred to Lestrange. He regarded them shrewdly. “You think Green lives with you still?”

The girls glanced at each other. “Well, no,” Druella said, “but she moved to another room in the girls’ dormitories, right? That’s what Riddle told us after Christmas.”

Lestrange looked grimly satisfied. “I see. That explains it.” He turned to the girls, raising his wand. _“Obliviate!”_

Hermione was not caught in the short-term Memory Charm, since she was standing to the side of Lestrange. She held her breath as he escorted the girls out of the classroom. She waited until all three of them had disappeared before taking off to locate Tom.

* * *

“He _what?”_ Tom exclaimed once Hermione had explained everything to him. “You’re certain?”

“He named the room by name,” Hermione said patiently. “And a few days ago, he and Nott were lurking outside it while I was in there and muttering things under their breath like ‘I need to see what Riddle sees.’”

“They shouldn’t be able to do that,” Tom muttered under his breath. “That doesn’t make sense. I sure as hell didn’t tell them the Secret.”

She frowned in contemplation. “Would you have to? I mean, suppose they were hiding in the corridor and saw me enter it. Would that—”

“You aren’t the Secret-Keeper. They shouldn’t be able to… though I wonder… I think you can _name_ the place, just not in the context of the Secret. Are you _positive—”_

“He asked them what I was asking of the Room of Requirement,” Hermione said once more. “And then when they didn’t know what he meant, he asked if they thought I was still living with them. It sure sounds to me as if he knows the Secret itself.”

“That cannot be,” Tom said. “It just can’t.”

“Tom, are you _positive_ that you didn’t overlook anything in the casting?”

“You know the theory as well as I do. You have any ideas?”

She bit her lip. “I’ve never cast the spell. But shouldn’t we read the book about it again, the section about the Fidelius Charm, just to be sure?”

“I want to see this for myself,” he finally said. “Tomorrow's Saturday. I want you to be seen in the common room tomorrow, alone—I’ll keep watch on you, don’t worry—and then be seen leaving. But I’ll be lurking up there invisibly, waiting for them to show up. They _can’t_ know the Secret. It is literally impossible.”

Hermione was not so sure of that. The Fidelius Charm was very complex, and if any detail of it went wrong, the entire charm would be invalidated. Passing a Secret to a person could happen inadvertently, as she knew from her experience with Yaxley in the war year. And Tom, of course, was supremely confident in his own magic, but it did not always follow that his confidence was justified. She didn’t know _what_ might have gone wrong, but there was a creeping feeling that something very much had. She didn’t want to test it, because there was no one she would trust with the information, but she was fairly sure that she herself could tell someone about her living quarters—and she shouldn’t be able to.

The next day, Hermione sat in the Slytherin common room, pretending to revise for her DADA NEWT. Lestrange was in the room with her, she noted. Nott wasn’t. She wondered if they had a system of passing messages to each other and Lestrange would inform Nott when she left.

She closed her book and got up, observing out of the corner of her left eye that Lestrange reached a hand into his pocket at the movement. They probably did have a means of passing simple messages, then—perhaps something like her DA coins.

Meanwhile, on the seventh floor, Tom stood invisibly in the corner, protected by a perfect Disillusionment Charm. He did not hear anyone else in the hall, though that didn’t mean anything. Lestrange and Nott were probably too wary of him now to lurk there all the time.

He couldn’t tell the time with his pocket watch—the one Hermione had given him—under the charm, but he knew it was approaching their agreed-upon time for her to leave the dungeons. If one or both of them intended to make an appearance, now would be the time.

Suddenly he heard lightly pattering footsteps. He held his breath and slunk further into the shadows. In a moment, a blur appeared in the hallway. It was someone under a poorly cast Disillusionment Charm.

Tom’s hand twitched on the Elder Wand. _I should kill you right now,_ he thought, but he did not cast. As tempting as it was to simply remove the threat, he needed to understand what the threat was. He had to be patient.

The bad Disillusionment Charm made the walls look as if they were rippling and faintly discolored when Lestrange or Nott—whoever it was—passed over a given spot. Tom was able to easily track the person’s progression until the unknown boy stood directly in front of the wall concealing the Room of Requirement’s door.

“I need to see the place Hermione Green sleeps,” the boy—Claudius Nott—muttered.

An outline began to appear around the door. Nott exclaimed in malicious joy.

Tom gasped in astonishment. _No,_ he thought. _No. This cannot be—_

But it was happening, and he reacted at once before the room would betray Hermione’s location. He slashed the Elder Wand through the air.

_“Maceracorpus!”_

Tom had not intended to cast that. He had meant to use a simple Petrificus. It must have been the wand again. There was no time to worry about it, though—the spell, although technically a Dark curse, would not do any lasting damage. It would weaken his body by making his muscles weak and his skin feel bruised, but it was easily enough lifted. The blur that was Nott tumbled to the ground and began to twitch, evident by the quickened rate of rippling. The twitching slowed as the curse intensified.

Well, it would hold Nott for a while. Tom hurried down to intercept Hermione.

She knew the plan. Get up, leave the room, go to the library, and then return to the common room with a book, making it appear to whichever boy remained there that she had simply meant to do that. She was already on the way back with a tome when Tom arrived in the library, so she did not see him.

He took the Disillusionment Charm off himself and glanced around the library to look for her. She wasn’t there. That meant she probably had already returned to the common room. She would be all right if she remained there. Tom headed over to the section about advanced charms and took the relevant tome off the shelves.

He sat down at a table, opened the book, and went to the section about the Fidelius Charm. He had never cast it before using it to protect Hermione’s location, but he was sure he understood the magical theory. He had _not_ given away the secret to Lestrange or Nott. It should have been a piece of information known only to him and Hermione. He must have overlooked something in the books. He hated having to acknowledge any mistakes, but the evidence of the door outline was indisputable. The only thing to do was to figure out at once what it was so he could recast it properly this time.

 

_The Fidelius Charm is a highly complex and structured piece of Light magic that requires numerous conditions to be precisely ordered…_

 

Tom read over the text. The piece of information to be protected as the Secret had to be precisely true; if a Secret ever became false in any respect, the charm would break. _Hermione does reside in the Room of Requirement,_ he thought. That wasn’t the problem.

 

_With the unique magical signature of a Keeper’s identity as the Key, the Secret is Arithmantically encoded into a form of information that can be decoded only by the Keeper and read only by those who have been given the Secret by the Keeper._

 

Tom read on, frowning as he did. He had not violated any of the conditions in the book. What, then….

 

_In the event of a Secret-Keeper’s death, all persons to whom the Secret-Keeper had entrusted the Secret will become Secret-Keepers. It is functionally equivalent to casting the charm many times for the same Secret—which can be done only by an already existing Keeper, as no one else would have the ability to divulge the Secret to others._

_Since Keepers can act independently of each other, it is inadvisable to rely on the security of information with multiple Secret-Keepers. Casting the charm more than once for the same Secret (to have multiple Keepers) is not recommended. When possible, breaking the charm by invalidating its accuracy is the advised course of action if a Secret-Keeper dies. It should then be recast with one person as the new Keeper._

 

The Secret-Keeper hadn’t died, though, and no one else had been told anyway. This was all very nice theory, but it didn’t seem relevant. Tom continued.

 

 _The salient point of the Fidelius Charm is that it has very precise and singular requirements to be valid. It might be tempting to counter the risk of Secret exposure by trying to cast the charm with multiple persons as a single collective Keeper, but this cannot be done. The charm prohibits it for the very reason that it would not work properly. If one individual in the group died, the group identity of the collective Keeper would change, breaking the charm._ _For this reason, when an original Secret-Keeper dies, the inheritors are also not a collective Keeper, but individual Keepers with their own unique Keys to the same Secret. The Arithmantic equation encoding a Secret requires a single Key, and this Key is based upon the deepest level of identity of one Keeper. A Secret must be sealed into a single soul._

 

A crawling feeling began at the base of Tom’s spine. _Surely not,_ he thought. He closed the book, put it back on the shelf, and shuffled listlessly back to the Slytherin dormitories to look for a certain Dark Arts text.

Hermione was in the common room as he passed through, reading by the fireside. He touched her shoulder as he passed by, and she looked up. A smile formed on her face. He just managed to return it. He noticed with much less pleasure that Roland Lestrange was also still there, lurking in a dark corner by himself and apparently reading the sports section of the _Daily Prophet._ Tom regarded him with a sneer and continued to the boys’ dormitory.

In a little bit, he was reading the book increasingly frantically, the truth slamming into his mind like a wave as every sentence seemed to confirm his newly minted theory.

 

_In addition, performing this magic is suspected to strongly weaken or break other complex mind- and soul-based magic, especially extant Imperius Curses. It is theorized that a dark wizard’s capacity to sustain such spells cast after the creation of the Horcrux may be permanently reduced, though much depends on the magical power of the caster and target. The Patronus Charm may also become more difficult to cast._

 

The Fidelius Charm was not explicitly named in the book as a spell that might be negatively affected, but it was unquestionably a complex soul-based charm. There were a Secret and a Key in a single Arithmantic encoding. The Secret itself had to remain identical to what it was when the spell was cast, and he would wager that the Key did too.

_Not that there is any way but one to alter that…._

With the information about Fidelius in the other book, it seemed horribly likely that he had inadvertently broken the Fidelius Charm by changing his “Key,” the deepest level of his identity. He had to drop new memories into the diary, after all; it was not connected to his mind and did not receive his experiences automatically, nor did he receive the memories of, say, Hermione writing in the diary….

The thought quickly passed through his brain that this was really a fascinating magical discovery—and that it was damned unfortunate he could never tell anyone about it. It was even worse that he had to discover it this way.

Tom shut the cover of _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ , banished the book into his trunk, and hurried out of the boys’ dormitory.

Hermione was not in front of the fireplace anymore. Tom’s heart sank. He looked around quickly, hoping to pick her out among the shadowed faces, but no, she was not in the common room.

Neither, Tom noticed with dread, was Roland Lestrange.

He bounded up the stairs, seven flights of them, until he was out of breath, panting in the corridor. He gathered his strength and darted down the hallway.

Nott was gone too. There was not even the smudge that was the signature of his incompetently cast Disillusionment Charm.

 _I need to see Hermione’s living quarters,_ Tom thought frantically.

The door appeared along the stretch of wall. Tom grasped the knob and opened it. “Hermione?” he called into the room.

There was no answer. He strode into the room and looked around. “Hermione!” he called louder. There was still no answer.

 _Homenum Revelio,_ he thought, holding up his wand tip. Nothing happened.

Tom breathed deeply, calming himself. _The list,_ he thought. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his charmed list of names from it.

The parchment was only able to plot locations inside the castle, and it seemed that the Room of Requirement was Unplottable. People who were in this room—or were not on Hogwarts grounds—had blank spaces in the location column next to their names. For the past few months, Tom had deduced that Hermione was in her room when the location column for her was empty, but he knew that nobody but him was in this room right now. He scanned the list quickly.

Lestrange, blank.

Nott, blank.

Hermione, blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are unclear details about just how the Fidelius Charm works, but PoA does say that a Secret is concealed in a “single, living soul.” This is somewhat complicated by the charm designating everyone who had been given a secret a Keeper if the original Keeper dies, but it also says in that PoA passage that it’s an “immensely complex charm.” Obviously the theory in this chapter is not canon, but I think it is workable within canon. The Secret is not a normally acquired memory, after all (those do seem to be duplicated neatly into Horcruxes, at least up to the date that one is made), but a piece of information magically sealed into the soul. I have used the analogy of cryptography for my headcanon regarding this charm’s operation, which is what I’ve attempted to convey in Tom’s reading about it.


	24. A Faustian Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're rapidly approaching the climax. But I have yet another evil cliffhanger for you first. :D

Hermione had got up to go to the Room of Requirement, sure that Tom’s smile and friendly touch had meant that the place was secure. She had continued to the seventh floor, not noticing the footsteps behind her until it was too late, and Lestrange had Stunned her behind her back.

When she woke up, an unpleasantly familiar room surrounded her: a room with creepy Victorian furniture, a lot of sickly green, and many sinister magical artifacts. She herself was seated—or perhaps _slumped_ was more accurate—in a green velvet armchair. A stylishly balding, thinly moustachioed, middle-aged wizard sat across from her, smiling darkly as she awoke. In the shadows near the door lurked another dark-haired man, this one with heavy eyebrows and an angular face.

She groaned as she sat upright in the chair. She definitely knew this room, and that meant that the wizard with the moustache—the one seated in the most ornate chair in the room—had to be—

“Arcturus Black?” she said.

He smirked. “Indeed. And in the background, standing guard, is Pierre Lestrange. We know who you are.”

“Obviously, since you had me _abducted,”_ she bit out, scowling. “What is it this time?”

Black ignored her question. “In case you take it into your head to make a daring escape, I should warn you of something. Nott is also in this house, just outside this door, along with his son and Lestrange’s. Young Nott was apparently attacked with a nasty Dark curse—no doubt by your illustrious fiancé—and I can guarantee you that his father’s patience is limited today.”

“What do you want?” Hermione asked flatly. “Are you going to have me killed? Because _I_ can guarantee _you_ that you won’t get away with it.”

Black raised an elegant eyebrow. “I have no intention of harming you at all,” he said. “I have had you brought here so that I might offer you a proposition.”

Hermione scoffed. “I’m sure that by ‘proposition,’ you mean threat,” she sneered.

Black did not respond to the accusation. Instead he reached for an item on the nearest table: a newspaper, Hermione observed. He held up the older _Daily Prophet_ that contained their engagement shoot. The familiar series of photographs greeted Hermione, moving pictures of Tom and herself engaging in various cutesy activities.

Black smiled benignly. “A happy ending for the young hero and heroine… _if_ one can believe what is printed in the _Prophet.”_ He stared at Hermione.

Hermione stared back, refusing to respond.

“Of course… one usually cannot believe everything in that newspaper.” He slammed the paper down on the table. “Young Lestrange informed me that your true feelings about Britain’s illustrious young hero are rather different from this pose you had to strike for these photographs.”

Finally Hermione had to speak up. “With _all_ due respect, Mr. Black, I don’t see how my feelings about Riddle are anyone else’s concern, and I’m not going to discuss them.”

“You call him Riddle,” Black noted. “Fascinating. Even my son refers to his intended by her given name, and they are not a… what’s the term? ‘Love match.’”

“I prefer not to call him Tom in front of outsiders,” Hermione said pointedly. “Excuse me, Mr. Black, but where are you going with this? I am not naïve enough to believe that you care one bit how I feel about my fiancé. What do you want from me, really?”

Black looked satisfied. “You’re quite correct. This would be a matter of indifference to me—except for one little detail.” He smiled at her. “Can you guess what it is?”

Hermione scowled and bit her lip. “You regard him as a threat to your political movement. I’m perfectly aware of that.”

Black smiled. “It did not escape my notice that there was an information leak about my allies’ French associates. For a long time I believed you must have been that leak, since you had such an unorthodox background, and I am still very curious about how you spent most of your life… but I now believe that, whatever arrangement you, Riddle, Dumbledore, and perhaps Slughorn had with Grindelwald, you were the least involved in it and were probably used by the others for a part that you profoundly dislike.”

“There was no ‘arrangement,’” she lied.

Black ignored this. “I know that Dumbledore is a raving hypocrite, castigating my compatriots for ‘using our children as pawns’ for the continuance of ancient bloodlines and political power while doing the same himself—at least for the latter purpose. Your Mr. Riddle seems to want power enough that he doesn’t mind it. But you… you aren’t happy at all with the lot that those three—or should I say _four—_ wizards set up for you, are you?” He regarded her steadily.

Hermione considered him impassively, not answering.

Black’s mouth curled upward. Apparently he did not require an answer. “You had dreams of your own. Lestrange’s son informed us that you wanted to work at the Ministry. Although my prestige has been diminished of late, I still have the power to make that happen if you assist me. You just need to tell me the specific details of the conspiracy and background.”

“There was no ‘conspiracy,’ and you can’t honestly think that I would tell you what you want to hear just for an insinuation that you would get me a Ministry job,” Hermione said. “I know quite well what your ilk think of people who aren’t purebloods. Why would you help me?”

“But there is no conflict between my views on blood purity and my offer. I have no objection whatever if you spend your reproductive years as an unmarried, childless witch working at the Ministry,” he said. “I am quite sincerely happy to assist your ambition.”

Hermione was simultaneously disgusted by his eugenicist motive and impressed with his stark honesty. For a moment she actually considered the offer. It was unpleasant to contemplate this man being her patron, or the probability that blood purity ideology would triumph in the short term if she turned Tom in, but she did consider it. Perhaps the liberal side would behave better if they were on the defensive rather than the offensive during these critical years. Perhaps—

 _What am I thinking?_ she suddenly asked herself. _He wouldn’t betray me, and he would punish anyone who presumed to ask him to. Also—_

“Mr. Black, your cousin performed the Cruciatus Curse on me and carved up my arm. Forgive me if I find it a little difficult to trust your words.”

“Ah yes, my late cousin did have rather a taste for torture. He acted independently. I did not know that he planned to do that to you and did not approve when I learned.”

“No, you just ordered him to falsify evidence against me and Tom.”

That visibly startled Black. Lestrange also shifted in the shadows. “How do you know about that?” Black exclaimed.

 _Damn it,_ Hermione thought in panic. _Damn, damn, damn._

“No matter, I’m sure your _charming_ fiancé got it from one of his ‘friends,’” Black said, waving a hand dismissively. “That merely confirms the _other_ thing I have suspected. He was responsible for my cousin’s death, wasn’t he?”

Hermione’s heart thudded. Bravely she responded, “I am sure it is very difficult for you to accept the circumstances. It’s never easy when someone you care for dies in any way that you could blame yourself for. Believe me… I know how that feels.”

Black was scowling.

“But it’s counterproductive to make an enemy of _Tom_ over it. He is the one who is probably most responsible for the defeat of Weasley’s bills.”

Black sucked in his breath, trying to control his annoyance. “My dear Miss Green, how little you understand politics. I _wanted_ Weasley to push those radical laws. The Propaganda Restriction Act would have been rather useful in the long term. The Dark Artifacts one—well, I would never have been affected, myself—it’s amazing what gold will do—but had that been passed, enough people _would_ have been affected that they would have called for repeal very quickly. My side ultimately would have benefited from it.”

“So, then, Tom—”

He glared at her. “Your darling fiancé wants to change the rules of the game. He thinks he doesn’t need to pick one of the traditional sides because of his ‘act of heroism.’ He thinks he can draw support from both sides, and it seems that he _can.”_

“So can the Minister,” Hermione pointed out quietly. “I may not be a political genius, but I do know that truly successful politicians have to be able to make compromises, or else it will be as you described, like the pendulum of a clock swinging back and forth.”

“They cannot be trusted!” Black exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table. “It means their primary agenda is either personal ambition, or some mixed ideology of their own. It means their loyalty is to themselves.”

“Rather than to an ideological group,” she muttered. “I see. You like the known political battle lines, with the sides clearly defined and the battle strategy predictable.”

“Exactly!” Black said. He smiled grimly at Hermione. “You _do_ see why I am, as you put it, ‘making an enemy’ of your Mr. Riddle.”

“Because you don’t think you could ever own him—or categorize him as part of the opponent that you’re familiar with.”

“Correct. At some point prior to your little stunt, it might have been possible to use him, perhaps even to turn him into one of us. We have had a long tradition of half-blood supporters who are pleased to be given approval to hate someone lower than themselves. It was possible, but not anymore. And I dare say he knows it. He doesn’t need us, and he doesn’t need the Muggle-lovers. Your charismatic Mr. Riddle has managed to garner broad support in peacetime at the age of eighteen. He basically shut down two legislative bills and picked the new Law Enforcement Head! At eighteen! He is _dangerous.”_

“You’re right about that much,” Hermione acknowledged.

Black regarded Hermione with satisfaction. “Good… and you disapprove of that, I see. You’re wary of that. Interesting, indeed. Now that we are on the same page, let’s reconsider a few things, shall we?”

* * *

Tom stood in the Room of Requirement, rapidly deciding what to do. Hermione had clearly been taken into the custody of one of the Black faction. It was probably Arcturus Black’s house again, but there was no guarantee of that. He would have to get her out of there. She had saved herself before, but she was badly outnumbered this time and they would not make the mistake again of leaving her with just one person. He would need backup, he decided. Probably Slughorn. He did not think he could trust the Knights’ loyalty if it turned into a fight, as he expected it to, and he did not need the buffoons breaking out in pockmarks in a battle as Hermione’s hex activated.

A horrible thought crossed his mind. He strode over to the table next to Hermione’s bed. The wards on the drawer were in place, but he had to be sure. He took the spells down and opened the drawer. At once he laid eyes upon his dark blue diary. He touched its leather cover, feeling his own magic and essence.

For a moment he had the impulse to pick it up and take it with him. He lifted it out of the drawer—then dropped it as if it were a hot coal.

 _The Elder Wand,_ he thought. The treacherous object. There was no reason for him to have the Horcrux with him, and it would only put it at unnecessary risk of exposure or even destruction—but that wand was still messing with his mind and making him doubt its safety here.

 _The Fidelius Charm is broken._ _There will be a confrontation when I show up, and they might use the Killing Curse. If they have a third person I don’t know anything about, that person could come in here and destroy it behind my back. If I have it with me, I will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s safe—that I am safe. And if I’m hit by the curse, it’s better to have it on my person. I’d have to repossess my body quickly, and having it there would be an additional draw for my soul._ He reached for the diary again.

 _No. I shouldn’t plan on being hit by the curse. I am better than they are. Besides, they didn’t take anything from the room. Nobody knows except Hermione, and she would never tell them. No one will be coming in here until I bring her back._ Thinking of Hermione brought him back to the present reality. _This is about Hermione,_ he told himself firmly. _I’m wasting time. I have to get to her._

He shut the drawer and started to put the powerful wards back on it, but doubt nagged at him once more.

 _Oh, the hell with it. Elder Wand influence or not, this will trouble me if I don’t have it._ He opened the drawer, grabbed the diary, and shoved it into his pocket.

Tom left his bag in the Room of Requirement, but he kept both of his wands with him as he strode out. His next stop was Slughorn’s office. On the ground floor, he ran into Vincent Rosier.

“Riddle,” Rosier said, his face full of concern.

“Later, Rosier,” Tom said dismissively. He continued his purposeful stride.

“No, I think I know—they took Green, didn’t they? I don’t know where any of them are now, her or Lestrange or Nott.”

Tom stopped walking and regarded the slight boy with a scowl. “You swore an oath,” he warned.

“And I want to keep it,” Rosier pleaded. “Black—he can’t do this. He has to be stopped. It’s not _sane.”_

Tom continued to scowl at the boy. “I am going to tell Slughorn about it. It may turn into a duel. As far as I can tell, Lestrange and Nott—and their fathers—will be there. If you can’t hold your own, it’s better if you don’t go.”

“I can hold my own,” Rosier boasted.

Tom was still skeptical. _Then again,_ he thought, _as long as he isn’t a liability, at least he would be another wand._ “Can you attack any of those people if it came to that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Rosier winced. “I hope it _doesn’t_ come to that, but… I could. They have to be stopped.”

Tom glared at him. “For me, or for their own good? And make it quick.”

Rosier sighed. “Riddle, I—for both. I don’t want an old family to disgrace itself like this—my sister is going to marry a Black—but I gave my support to you, of course, and I take that seriously.”

“You want a job in the Ministry and think I’m your best chance to get it now.”

Rosier did not respond.

“Answer me.”

Rosier looked up at Tom and nodded quickly. “I was going to be kept out by Mr. Pollux because of the situation with my sister. Lestrange was an arse about it.”

“At least you’re honest,” Tom said coldly. “I would have been able to tell if you were lying. If you prove yourself, I’ll see what I can do.” Tom was content; if it were primarily a personal ambition motivating Rosier, that was better for himself—and Hermione—than concern for Black's reputation. He stared at the other boy. “But know this: If you turn on me, you will regret it in more ways than one.”

“I understand,” Rosier gulped, “and I’m going to fight by you.”

“You’d better.” He regarded the smaller boy evenly for a moment. “Now we’re going to see Slughorn. You will back me up when I tell him what’s going on. That’s your first test.”

* * *

“I am not going to tell lies about Tom to get a Ministry job under your patronage,” Hermione said firmly.

Black shook his head dismissively. “My dear Miss Green—”

“I am not your dear,” Hermione snapped.

Black sneered. “It was an attempt at politeness.”

“It was patronizing.”

“You aren’t Riddle’s _dear_ either, as best I can tell. I have offered to give you what you truly desire and get you out of this engagement that you very clearly do not want. The offer still remains.”

“I’ve told you, it is none of your business—but if you insist on thinking it is, let me explain something. Maybe I won’t work in the Ministry. Maybe I did have to adjust my ambitions. But there are plenty of other things I can do. The Ministry isn’t the only worthy institution in the wizarding world. And as for Tom—we’re very close. _Very._ You think I must know all these terrible secrets, but have you ever considered that if I _did,_ that very fact would undermine your strategy? Why do you think he would _tell_ me anything important if I were just a tool? Do you tell your daughter anything? Or your wife?”

Black shifted in his chair.

“The fundamental flaw with your plan is that you don’t seem to think young witches make their own choices—that they can only be the pawns of wizards. I assure you, whatever _secrets_ of Tom’s that I know, I know them because he chose to confide in me. Because he _respected_ me.” She glared at Black, clenching her fists. “You’ve wasted your time, Mr. Black. You might as well return me to Hogwarts before Tom notices I am gone. Now where is my wand?”

“Nott has it.”

Hermione groaned.

“And I have no intention of returning you to Hogwarts until I’ve got what I want from you. I _will_ have what I brought you here for, Miss Green.” He picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and puffed on it. “You had the opportunity to benefit from it, but if you are determined not to….”

“Oh, _now_ you’re going to revert to form and torture me?”

Arcturus set the cigarette back down and gazed straight at Hermione’s face. “Not physically.”

His eyes met hers, and her mind lurched.

 _He’s a Legilimens too!_ she thought in shock. He was not as precise about it as Tom or Dumbledore, and that made the sensation much worse. Black’s presence began to rifle through her memories, instantly making her head hurt.

Black was pulling up all the memories related to Grindelwald that he could find. Hermione briefly relived the duel.

“You didn’t fight at all,” Black gloated. “So _that’s_ what he has on you. If he told the truth, you would have no respect from anyone. I wondered.”

“Get out of my mind,” she snarled, trying to force Black’s presence out. The one thing that gave her solace was that Black could not force the Secret of Tom’s espionage out of her head. That _had_ to be voluntarily divulged.

The memory of being abducted by Grindelwald came up. “Interesting,” Black remarked. “I suppose you really weren’t a spy. My mistake. You’re much more useless than I thought.”

Hermione slammed his mind out of hers. Her head throbbed with pain as she focused on Black’s face once more. “Am I, you inbred bigot?” she snarled. “For telling Grindelwald no? If you think I couldn’t have joined in when Tom dueled him, I’ll have you know that I escaped your sadist of a cousin with wandless magic, and you’re asking for me to—”

“On that subject,” Black said, grinning as he met Hermione’s eyes again. Her growing migraine prevented her from forcing his presence out immediately, and to her horror, she realized that he was searching for memories about Pollux Black.

It hurt her to relive this, but she focused on the memory of being tortured. She kept it at the forefront of her thoughts, trying to bury everything related to the murder that she could think of.

Arcturus Black was apparently not fooled. His mental presence seemed to sidestep the continuously replaying torture sequence and followed the connection that would lead to other memories about his cousin. Hermione tossed another pair at him: Pollux drunk at the Slug Club party, snarling back and forth with Tom; and Pollux at the Slug Club dinner that fall giving them both the cold shoulder.

Black dismissed these memories scornfully and continued his brutal searching of her mind. Her headache was intense. Suddenly the image of a dark blue leatherbound diary floated to the surface of her thoughts.

Hermione slammed him out of her mind so forcefully that when he came back into focus—instantly, she noticed—it was he who clutched his forehead in pain. He fell back in his chair.

“What was that?” Black demanded, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s my diary,” she lied, glaring at him.

“And why is that associated with my cousin?”

“Because I put that memory into it,” she lied.

Black stared back at her. “You’re lying. I don’t know what you’re lying _about,_ but if you expect me to believe that—”

He met her gaze one last time, but she had a plan. She _had_ to protect this secret, and she had to do it with her own mental strength. It would be catastrophic otherwise, for both Tom and her. She was an accessory, after all, for keeping the secret. And to protect it, she had to give Black something that would be so shocking and unexpected that he would stop this.

As soon as she felt Black’s mind searching her own, she tossed him something else.

_Holding the Time-Turner. The phoenix alighting on her head._

_“Are we correct to assume, then, that you have traveled back in time?”_

_“The future is fluid.”_

_“I do not know how far in the future you come from... but I think your ‘accident’ happened for a reason.”_

_1944._

_1944._

_1944._

Black withdrew from Hermione’s mind abruptly. His eyes were wide with astonishment.

“Fascinating,” he breathed. He gazed at her appraisingly. “So _that’s_ it. That’s how you did it. You already knew what would otherwise happen. My apologies, Miss Green. You are formidable indeed. I wonder now… was this strictly between you and Mr. Riddle? Perhaps your”—he chuckled darkly—“‘cousin’ knew nothing of what you were to change.”

Hermione stared back at Arcturus Black, grim satisfaction filling her mind. She avoided showing it, instead forcing a look of alarm onto her face.

“I see why you refused me now. It wasn’t just resigned loyalty to Dumbledore and Slughorn. You _changed_ something, something important, and if you left Mr. Riddle, it would ruin everything.”

The feigned look of alarm on Hermione’s face suddenly transformed into a real one.

Black got up. “What is so important about Mr. Riddle that he had to be pushed into a Ministry career?” he demanded. “What have you changed?”

* * *

Slughorn’s brow was wrinkled, and he was wringing his hands in concern. “That’s quite an accusation to make, Tom,” he said in troubled tones.

“I’m certain of it, though.” Tom looked his professor in the eye. “It isn’t the first time the Black family has shown a negative interest in her.”

“Tom! Whatever do you mean by that?”

Tom considered for a moment, coming to a decision about something. “At the Christmas party you held, Pollux Black threatened her.”

Slughorn gasped.

“He all but accused her of spying for Grindelwald. Apparently he and his cousin Arcturus did not know what to make of—her background.” Tom stared at Slughorn, willing him to understand that he, too, was in on Hermione’s secret.

Slughorn’s eyes widened as he correctly interpreted that hard stare. Tom continued.

“Anyway, because of that, I think they took it into their heads that the only logical explanation was that she was planted here by Grindelwald—and Dumbledore, I think. So….” He trailed off, deciding on something else. He took a deep breath. “Pollux Black had her abducted by Portkey just as people were leaving for Christmas break. He… interrogated her about it.”

“Tom!” Slughorn exclaimed.

“I’m not making any of it up,” Tom said in hard tones. “And Rosier here can confirm it. I suspect he thinks Hermione had something to do with his cousin’s death, because of the interrogation. You understand about the Black family—their hereditary _problem.”_

The professor closed his eyes and nodded. He rubbed his forehead.

“And I know that Lestrange and Nott are in an alliance of sorts with Arcturus Black. Their fathers, too. Rosier can confirm that as well.”

Slughorn’s gaze shot quickly to the smaller boy. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Tom—”

“What he is saying is true, Professor,” Rosier said at once.

Slughorn winced.

“Where is Professor Dumbledore?” Tom demanded suddenly.

“He, the Headmaster, and Professor Merrythought are at the Ministry. Something about the Defense curriculum. It was probably your statement to the _Prophet_ about it that—I mean, I don’t intend to _blame_ you—but I don’t know who could be left in charge if I—”

Tom’s face suddenly grew stormy. “One of the other Heads of House, of course,” he said. “Unless you feel that you _must_ stay here. But Hermione is not in this castle. I know it for a fact. Can you come with us?”

Slughorn’s palms were sweaty. He fidgeted and dithered with an instrument from his desk. “Of course, if Black has had her taken—it would be best to be there, to reason with the man—and if he’s used Lestrange and Nott for it—yes, I think I’d better.”

* * *

“I am not telling you anything more,” Hermione said. She glared at Black. “You’re tired, aren’t you? Legilimency is tiring.”

Black peered back. “I do not have the energy for another incursion,” he admitted. “But you are still without a wand, and it seems that your wandless curses only manifest when you are under immense stress. You cannot summon them at will. You are also under guard by four armed, fully grown wizards. I’m not including Nott’s son, though he may have recovered by now. The advantage remains on my side.” He smiled insincerely at her. “And I forgot to mention, my wife is also in this house, most probably in her own parlor or music room. She is fond of music,” Black added as an aside. “Unlike you, she has not dirtied her hands with her spouse’s political business. You correctly guessed that. But I’m sure that she would procure some Veritaserum for me if I sent an elf to ask it of her.”

Hermione froze. She could not fight Veritaserum if they gave it to her. She would lose control of her own free will and tell them everything they wanted to know—everything, at least, that wasn’t protected by the Fidelius Charm. But that was still more than enough.

A crash suddenly sounded from just outside the room, followed by a very unmasculine scream.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

_“Stupefy!”_ That, Hermione noticed, seemed to be Vincent Rosier’s voice.

_“Crucio!”_

Another unmanly scream, this one drawn-out. It sounded like Rosier.

 _“Reducto!”_ A crash. _“Stupefy! Obliviate!”_

“It seems that your fiancé has decided to pay us a visit,” Black said. “Excellent. I’ll simply find out from him directly.”

“Tom is a better Legilimens than you are,” Hermione said spitefully.

“Perhaps so, but is he a good _Occlumens?”_ Black said pointedly. He headed for the parlor door.

Before he could get there, it opened with a metallic screech of hinges and slammed violently against the wall. The color drained from Black’s face.

Hermione gazed past him. Slughorn was there, looking deeply disturbed at the confirmation of what Tom had undoubtedly told him. Vincent Rosier was behind him, sprawled on the ground, groaning from the aftermath of the Cruciatus Curse.

Tom stood beside his professor, holding the Elder Wand in one hand and Hermione’s in the other. His features were set in a look of rage that she had rarely seen before, and his eyes gleamed as red as blood.


	25. The Nick of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next to last, and I'm feeling kind of sad about it too. Ah well. There's always the AU to play in.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Tom said, his voice like the edge of a razor. “Let her go.”

Black laughed. “I don’t take orders from an upstart eighteen-year-old half-blood.”

Hermione winced. _Here we go,_ she thought unhappily.

But Tom did not lash out in violence immediately. Perhaps it was the presence of his teacher. He handed Hermione her wand, giving Black a threatening look as he put it in her hand. His eyes flashed red. Black noticed, his own eyes widening.

Slughorn was standing beside Tom and did not see it. He frowned. “Arcturus, don’t do this. Let’s all sit down and talk like reasonable people.”

Black shook his head mirthlessly. “You shouldn’t have come, Horace,” he said. “You shouldn’t have let him involve you. Unless,” he added darkly, “you were involved from the start.” He turned to Tom. “Let’s find out.”

Tom gasped as Black locked eyes with him. His wand hand dropped, and his hand began shaking involuntarily.

“Not much of an Occlumens, are you,” Black chortled. “At least when it comes to anger. You wear that on your sleeve. So much anger. Almost everyone did you wrong, I see, starting with mum and dad.” He laughed.

Tom let out a cry that sounded very much like pain. “You’re not—much of a _Legilimens,”_ he managed to retort, clutching his head.

“Your… what is she, really? She indicated that you were very important. How so?”

Tom wrenched his gaze away with the appearance of an intense struggle, breaking eye contact. Hermione wanted to curse the smug look off Black’s face, but she had a horrible feeling that if she sent the first curse, Black would retaliate on Tom, who at the moment obviously had the same type of debilitating headache she had right after Black’s Legilimency. _What did he see?_ she thought. _It couldn’t have been the Secret I hold—but there is so much else—_

But Tom was not out of the fight as much as Hermione thought. He righted himself and sent a nonverbal curse at Black without warning. Black jumped back, and it blasted a hole in his chair. For a brief moment he stared at Tom with surprise in his eyes, but then he had his wand at the ready. In the background, so did the elder Lestrange.

Lestrange acted first, sending a spell at Tom’s head. He ducked, and it ricocheted off a mirror. Fragments of shattered glass fell sparkling to the floor. The spell terminated at a wood carving that rested on Black’s side table, sending splinters of wood at Black in the explosion.

Black scowled. “Get out of here, Lestrange.”

“But _sir—”_

“I don’t need ‘friendly’ fire. Stand guard outside the door with the others—and revive them if they are down. Don’t harm the Rosier boy. He might be Imperiused.”

Lestrange scowled but did as he was told. Unconcerned with rules of engagement, Tom took advantage of the lull to send a curse at Black while Lestrange was closing the door behind himself.

Black sent back a very powerful Reductor before Hermione or Slughorn could intervene—or get out of the way. All three of them crashed backward from the force.

Tom sprawled on the floor on his back, scooting a very short distance over the velvet carpet before friction asserted itself. The satin lining of his robe pocket did not have very much friction, however. Propelled by momentum, the contents of his pocket slid out across the fabric.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “Why did you bring—”

“Aha! _Accio!”_

Tom scrambled to his feet as the diary sailed into Arcturus Black’s waiting hand.

He pointed his wand at the older man. _“Ava—”_ He blinked and broke off halfway through, apparently reconsidering. Hermione wondered if the wand had anything to do with it. Tom plastered a look of concern on his face and approached Black with a façade of calmness. “Mr. Black, you shouldn’t meddle with that. It’s cursed.”

Hermione and Slughorn got to their feet. Hermione’s heart was pounding with anxiety. Slughorn only looked confused at the turn of events. “Tom?” he inquired.

Outside the room, Lestrange Senior let out a roar of dismay and anger.

Black ignored everyone except Tom, at whom he smiled with faux benevolence. “But it has your name on it,” he remarked. “Why would you curse your own possession?”

Tom glanced around the parlor mockingly, his gaze settling on various Dark ornaments in turn. “Can’t imagine,” he said sarcastically. “Look, it’s cursed to attack anyone but me or Hermione. Hand it back.”

Black opened the cover of the diary. “I looked in Miss Green’s head for memories about my cousin and saw an image of this book before she forced my presence out. She said it was hers. I knew that was a lie,” he said, smirking. “It’s certainly highly magical. I’ve never come across an object with an aura this strong.” He raised his wand. _“Specialis Revelio!”_

Hermione held her breath for a fraction of a second. In the next moment, a wave of extremely aggressive magical force blasted from the pages of the book in a blinding blue flash. Black was thrown backward, skidding across the floor into the wooden leg of a sofa, already unconscious from the intense magical attack.

Tom’s eyes were wide. One corner of his mouth curled upward slightly, and he managed a slight laugh of relief. He waved his wand and silently cast a Summoning Charm. The book flew back into his hand, and he put it into his pocket again.

“You shouldn’t have brought that,” Hermione said at once. “Why—”

Before she could finish the question, the parlor door slammed open to reveal a frightened and infuriated Lestrange Senior. His head whipped around. His eyes widened at the sight of Arcturus Black sprawled unconscious against his own sofa.

 _“What did you do?”_ he shouted at Tom.

“Stand down,” Slughorn warned. He pointed his wand at Lestrange.

“I’m not standing down!” Lestrange raged. _“That_ little viper”—he pointed his wand at Tom—“did something to Roland!”

“It’s useless,” Tom said to Hermione and Slughorn. “And I’m sick of this. These fools want a fight. Let’s give them one.” He raised the Elder Wand. _“Confringo!”_

Lestrange almost dodged the curse, but not quite well enough to avoid being knocked over. Beyond him, Hermione quickly observed who was still in the fight. The elder Nott was on his feet, clutching his wand, anger in his eyes. Young Nott was also back. Vincent Rosier was shaky but standing. And Roland Lestrange—

Hermione’s heart sank. Something was very wrong. He was seated in a corner, eyes wide and cheerful. He was using his wand… to _play,_ she realized. A carved grindylow figure was doing some sort of dance before him, and he was smiling just like—

 _Just like a child,_ Hermione thought as the truth hit her. Tom had Obliviated _someone_ before bursting into the parlor. Clearly it had been a very powerful spell—or augmented by a powerful wand.

Tom met her eyes and merely shrugged.

Lestrange’s father was back on his feet. In the next moment, he and the elder Nott directed curses at the small group. Slughorn, Tom, Hermione, and Rosier formed a defensive circle and fired back as the younger Nott rejoined the fray.

“Blood-traitor,” Nott accused Rosier. “How can you fight with _them?”_ He cast a nasty hex at him.

Hermione tried to block it, but she and Slughorn were engaged with Nott’s father. Weakened from the Cruciatus Curse, Rosier was not quick enough to dodge the hex. He groaned and fell to the ground, thoroughly out of it this time.

Tom snarled in anger, but he was fighting Lestrange. Hermione left Slughorn to Nott’s father and took on the son. As she dueled her classmate, Hermione watched out of her peripheral vision with a strange kind of detachment as another classmate continued to laugh childishly and clap for the duelists.

 _What have I done?_ she asked herself in between hexes. She realized that she had been asking herself that particular question a lot lately. _The timeline—the Lestrange brothers probably won’t exist now, or different ones will. I don’t know how much of his memory Tom wiped, but it was a lot. It will take years for him to re-learn what he needs to._

“Take this, Mudblood! _Crucio!”_

Instantly Hermione jumped away, enraged that Nott would use an Unforgivable and call her _that._ _“Petrificus Totalus!”_ she responded. He was not fast enough. He froze into a block and crashed to the ground. She turned her attention to the elder Lestrange at once.

Slughorn cut down the elder Nott with a sweeping motion. He disarmed the wizard and tied him up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you can’t do this.” He considered further and cast another spell. Nott’s eyes fluttered shut as he fell unconscious.

Now only Lestrange was left standing. He glared at each person in turn, aware that he was outnumbered but unable to control his anger. He whipped his head toward his son, who was observing the duel with wide-eyed innocence, and then back to Tom.

“What did you do to my son, you misbegotten Muggle-spawn?” he raged.

“Showed him mercy he didn’t deserve,” Tom taunted. “I’m afraid he won’t get those memories back, but he’ll be quite all right in about, oh, ten years. And more useful, since he won’t hate me.” He watched as the elder Lestrange’s face turned red.

 _“Crucio!”_ Lestrange roared, all reason gone in the miasma of outrage.

Tom dodged it effortlessly. “Is that the best you can do?” he mocked, his voice heady with triumph and exhilaration. He raised the Elder Wand dramatically, a smirk on his face, playing for the camera—if there were one.

Hermione felt a horrible sense of foreboding. In the same moment, Lestrange bared his teeth in a malicious grin and whirled to face her instead.

 _“Avada Kedavra!”_ the man shouted, pointing his wand right at her chest.

Instinctively she made to swerve out of the way, but she knew she would not be fast enough. He was too close.

In the same moment, Tom flung himself before her and threw an arm directly in front of the incoming green light. The Killing Curse struck his forearm. His breath caught in his chest, his eyes fluttered shut, and he crashed to the ground.

 _“No!”_ Slughorn cried.

The same word was screaming through Hermione’s mind. This was bad. When he revived himself, Slughorn would see.

At the same time, though—

_He took that curse for me. For me._

There was no time to sort out the conflicting emotions. For now, there was still the fight with Lestrange, who was fighting to kill her too after what had happened to his son, and she wasn’t protected like Tom was—

 _“Crucio!”_ Hermione screamed at Lestrange. The wizard moved out of the way, and her curse hit the wall, shattering plaster into dust.

Horror and grief filled Slughorn’s face at the loss of his all-time favorite student and the anguish of the poor hero’s surviving fiancée, so manifestly intense that she would cast the Torture Curse in revenge.

But there would be time for pathos later, he reminded himself. They had to win first.

Lestrange turned around and sneered ferally. “You take my future; I take yours,” he spat. He cast a curse at Hermione, which she dodged.

 _Actually, I’ve already done that myself,_ she thought.

Slughorn and Hermione cast spells at Lestrange in the same time, a Petrificus and an Expulso. The pair of curses caught him in the chest, and with a look of momentary disbelief, he froze and flew into the wall, striking his head with a horrible crunch and falling to the floor insensible.

As Slughorn turned away from Lestrange, something caught his eye—as well as Hermione’s.

Tom was moving. His color returned, his eyes opened, and he grabbed the Elder Wand. He stood up, his eyes gleaming red. He breathed heavily, clutching his wand and rubbing the bruise on his arm where the Killing Curse had struck him. He gazed at Lestrange’s figure with disappointment—apparently that he did not get to cast the curse in retaliation—and walked toward it.

Hermione was glad he was alive. She felt ashamed of that on more than one level, but she was.

Tom was examining Lestrange’s crumpled form. “He’s _dead,”_ he remarked in surprise. “Looks like he broke his neck. Who sent him careening into the wall?”

Hermione gasped in horror. She had not been responsible for anyone’s death since she had left her old timeline, and it was again an unpleasant, disconnecting, depersonalizing jolt to learn that she had killed someone, even inadvertently. She gazed at Lestrange’s body. “I did,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t intend that to happen. Professor Slughorn Petrified him, and I used Expulso on him. I didn’t mean to kill him—”

He shook his head in disbelief. “He cast the _Killing Curse_ at you, Hermione. I really don’t understand why you keep wanting to save people who want you dead.”

“People such as yourself?” she shot back, her voice shaky.

He paused for a moment, but his gaze hardened again. “I never harmed you. What happened in your original timeline wasn’t me.”

Slughorn had been oblivious to the exchange between them, his stare never having left Tom since he revived himself. “Merlin’s beard, Tom! I’m not complaining, but how are you _alive?”_ he exclaimed.

Hermione suddenly felt a chill of fear for her professor.

Tom raised an eyebrow and threw a calculating, level gaze at Slughorn. “Oh, I’m pretty sure you’ll figure it out, Professor.”

Hermione grimaced and closed her eyes for a moment. _Why, Tom?_ she asked herself in despair. _You could have told him anything. He’ll believe whatever it takes to avoid thinking ill of you._ She knew why, of course. Oh, she knew why. Her gaze flickered to the wand he held. _“Antioch Peverell was an arrogant man who wanted to humiliate Death. He killed a wizard, then boasted of being invincible….”_

Slughorn’s face had turned ashen. His gaze darted to Tom’s pocket. He shuddered for a moment, closing his eyes—and closing his mind to the conclusion. “Oh, Tom, you _didn’t—_ our little discussion last year—but no, of course not,” he dithered anxiously. “Lestrange just didn’t cast it right. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Tom gazed at Slughorn with wordless contempt.

No other response was necessary. Slughorn winced and wrung his hands at Tom’s nonverbal confirmation. “Oh, Tom, you shouldn’t have—I mean, not that I wish you were dead, or Hermione, but—oh dear, oh dear….”

Disdainfully ignoring his professor’s moral dilemma, Tom strode forward, robes billowing, hair mussed. Now that they had won, he was strutting about with the arrogance of a conquering lord. He swirled the Elder Wand in the air and nonverbally tied up the unconscious Arcturus Black. He waved the wand again to awaken him.

“You,” he said. “You just couldn’t”—

He swiped the wand. Blood erupted from the gash that suddenly appeared on Black’s forehead. Black winced in severe pain but tried to control his face and his dignity.

“—stay—”

Another swipe, and a cut on Black’s cheek. He cried out.

 _“—out of it!”_ he roared, slicing cleanly across the man’s nose, cutting through nostrils.

“Tom!” Slughorn exclaimed.

“Why couldn’t you _stay away from her?”_ Tom shouted. “What did she ever do to you?”

Black spat blood. “The two of you are apparently trying to start some sort of bloody _revolution,_ that’s what! She told me herself—she showed me a memory of going back in time! She’s apparently arranged your political rise all along.”

Tom shot Hermione a look that made her heart hurt, and then he snarled at Black. “You are raving, and you are _damned_ lucky that I feel more like exposing you to the Minister than giving you what you deserve.” He raised the wand, scowling.

“Tom!” Hermione exclaimed.

 _“Stupefy!”_ Tom roared. Arcturus crashed to the floor, eyes fluttering shut. The curse was cast so powerfully that he fell unconscious again.

Tom turned to Hermione with a furious glare. “Why did you tell him that? Were you in the process of making a deal with him?” Bitterness oozed from his words.

Hurt by the accusation, she stared back at him hard. “I had already told him no, and he Legilimensed me! He was about to get _your_ little secret, so I gave him mine instead to pacify him!”

Tom’s face changed. “You showed him… to protect me?” The light in his eyes flickered white for a moment.

“If you wish I hadn’t—” she began hotly.

“No! You just… gave him _your_ secret to protect one of mine.” He spoke the words in an awed, almost reverent tone of voice.

Slughorn had not paid attention to this conversation either. He was still hovering around Black, sweating. “Tom, this is bad,” he said. “He’s the head of the Black family—very close to the Minister—and with Lestrange already dead, you can’t just slice him up like this and leave him here—”

Tom growled, the moment of calm lost. His eyes flashed with red light again. “Oh, can’t I? Why not, Professor? I’d love to present him to the Minister like a cut of meat!”

“Tom!” Slughorn exclaimed, appalled.

Tom whirled around, his robe swinging around his legs from the weight of the diary. He looked wild. Hermione glanced at him and momentarily thrilled with something, either fear or some twisted sort of desire—or a strange mix of both. He was certainly intimidating— _too_ intimidating, really. This was not right. This was—

“On second thought, I really should just kill every last bloody one of them,” he snarled.

“Tom, you _can’t!”_ Hermione exclaimed, her heart pounding.

“Oh, but I can.” He smiled mirthlessly and raised his wand over the unconscious Arcturus Black.

In a fraction of a second, Hermione’s thoughts whirled, converging quickly.

 _“It masters you,”_ Grindelwald had said. If Death had made the wand, then it had it in for Tom on a personal level. If the Peverells had made it, it had centuries of hostile Dark magic embedded in it, primed to take out anyone who was arrogant enough to claim mastery. And Tom was nothing if not arrogant.

A memory from another world intruded. _“The idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit… formidable,” Ollivander said._ This time, the Deathstick might _create_ the Dark Lord, if she let it.

She had changed history. She and Tom had received credit for the defeat of Grindelwald, not Dumbledore. He was going to go into the Ministry. He was not pushing blood purity ideology. He would be immensely influential. He probably _would_ be Minister for Magic in a decade if he wanted—unless he ruined it for himself, _as he was about to do,_ because of that wand.

He had a Horcrux, but he would not have six—or seven. He would have the one, so he would not lose his mind from overdoing it. He would have the confidence of knowing that it was there without the nasty side effects.

And he had two of the Deathly Hallows.

 _He will want the complete set._ This kind of power would be too intoxicating to control. He would want the cloak—which the Potter family held. He didn’t know that at the moment, but once he decided to focus on acquiring the Hallow, he would find it out.

An alternate timeline of events in which the Potters were targeted for a very different reason flashed before Hermione’s eyes.

_No. Never again. I can’t fix everything, but I will fix Harry’s life, and I will save Tom from that thing._

Had Lestrange briefly been master of the Elder Wand—until Hermione’s curse killed him? Was she now the owner? Or had Tom retained mastery by beating the curse? It didn’t matter. Either she was the master, or she was about to become so—for a second.

She pointed her wand at Tom. _“Expelliarmus!”_ she cried.

He scrambled, but it was too late. The Elder Wand soared through the air and into Hermione’s left hand. She took the wand between her hands and snapped it in two across her knee. Tiny splinters of wood fell to the floor.

Tom shrieked in dismay and lunged for Hermione, all thoughts of killing Black banished from his mind with this distraction. She tossed the pieces of the wand aside and pointed her own at him, her heart pounding.

He stopped cold, withdrew his yew wand, and directed it at her. His facial features were settling into a look of betrayal and outrage.

Slughorn had watched in consternation as the scene unfolded. His face fell at the sight of his favorite couple threatening each other. “Tom, let’s be reasonable now. Lower your wand,” he said weakly.

He continued to point his wand at Hermione, apparently not hearing. _“Cruc—”_ Tom broke off at once, unable to complete the curse. He looked ashamed for even beginning it.

Hermione merely gazed back at him. “Cast it if you want to, Tom,” she said. “It won’t repair the Elder Wand, and you’re the one who would have to live with it.”

Slughorn’s eyes widened at the mention of the Elder Wand. He glanced at the broken pieces with shock and something that looked very much like regret. Hermione and Tom ignored him.

“You said once that you didn’t want to lose me,” she continued. “Is that still true?”

He stared daggers at her. “You destroyed it. You betrayed me,” he said flatly. He still pointed his wand at Hermione’s chest.

“Tom, you don’t really want to curse her. Just lower your wand,” Slughorn said again, his face still ashen, his voice still weak.

“I didn’t betray you,” she said clearly. “I’m trying to save you.”

“Sure you are,” he scoffed. “You know how much I wanted it, and you _snapped_ it.”

“That _wand_ has been betraying you. It would have ruined everything. It almost did. You couldn’t have killed them all. You would have gone to Azkaban for it—or you would have had to go on the run. All your ambitions would have been ruined. You know it’s true.”

His wand hand shook. He was unable to cast anything at all at her.

Hermione continued to gaze back at him. “The wand was a trap set by Death—or Dark magic. It doesn’t even matter which.”

He hesitated, frowning faintly as he remembered the actions the wand had manipulated him into doing or almost doing. “I guess… it was.”

“It wasn’t the key to the power and influence you want. You already have that in yourself.” She paused. “But curse me if you must.”

His eyes widened, and the pupil glints were shining their natural white as he gazed at her. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Not you.” His wand hand dropped for a fraction of a second.

Then he turned aside, raising his wand, and directed it fiercely at Slughorn. “I’m sorry, Professor, but you know too much,” he said.

Slughorn’s face somehow grew even paler. He fumbled for his own wand. Tom’s eyebrows narrowed at the movement. He opened his mouth to cast the lethal curse.

“Stop.”

Tom turned away and looked at Hermione.

“Put your wand up, Tom. Right now.”

“You must be joking,” he said in disbelief.

“I’m not,” she said seriously. “You spared Grindelwald; you can spare Slughorn. This is just the magic of that wand. It got inside you. The magic is probably angry. It’s making you want to curse somebody. This _isn’t you.”_ She wasn’t sure she really believed that, but she wanted Tom to believe it—and make it true.

“The Elder Wand is _broken,”_ he sneered. “I want to curse him for knowing too much about my—activities.”

Slughorn gulped. “Wait—you mean Hermione—”

“Finally paying attention now, I see. Yes, Hermione watched me do it,” Tom said smugly. “Wouldn’t have guessed that, would you, Professor? Aren’t we all full of surprises today?”

Slughorn gaped at Hermione in astonishment, then turned back to Tom, his eyes pleading. “Tom. Listen, please. I don’t know, and don’t _want_ to know, anything more, but… it would have been a damn shame if the Killing Curse had taken either of you. It’s… good… that you’re both still alive. I’m… glad to have been of use.” His face was twisted in revulsion at his own words, forced out like a flow of treacle.

“See? It’s all right,” Hermione coaxed Tom, perfectly well aware that Slughorn was simply trying to keep himself alive, but still glad that he spoke up.

Tom sneered at Slughorn. “Always trying to take credit to yourself, even if it disgusts you. You just cannot help yourself. Guess what, _Professor?_ I already knew how to do it.”

“Tom, please lower your wand,” Hermione said. “This is the Elder Wand’s magic trying to make you do something reckless. A parting shot. It only ever served Death’s purposes, so what do you suppose it thought of _you?”_

He paused, considering that.

“But if you defeat its influence, you’ll have mastered it.” She breathed deeply, almost in disbelief at what she was about to say, but it was her last chance to stop him by persuasion. “Don’t kill him. There is another option. I’ve used it myself. You only have to… clean… the past few minutes.”

Something finally dawned in his eyes. It was the same look that had appeared on Grindelwald’s face after he had been away from the wand for a few minutes. At last, Tom nodded briefly. The hardness in his face melted.

Tom regarded his teacher for a moment before sending a Stunner at him. Slughorn fell to the floor, his eyelids fluttering closed.

Tom raised his wand again. _“Obliviate!”_

Hermione winced. She had essentially told him to do it, and it was infinitely preferable to what he was otherwise going to do, but it still—appropriately, she supposed, if ironically so—brought back uncomfortable memories.

She breathed heavily. _He listened,_ she told herself. _He listened to me. He still listens. At least there’s that._

Tom glanced at her. “Hermione?”

She looked up at him. “You should do it to Black too. I know you don’t want to, but Slughorn was right. We can’t just leave him for dead. We should clean him up too, before we owl the Minister. Still, he saw things—he was far too interested in your diary, and he knows I traveled back in time.”

Tom scowled but did not dispute her point. The intoxicating, reckless arrogance that the Elder Wand had bestowed upon him was apparently dissipating, just as it had with Grindelwald. He moved toward the spot where Black lay crumpled.

_I killed someone. I killed someone and snapped the Elder Wand and Lestrange lost all his teenage memories and Tom was killed but—_

She got up and joined Tom next to Black. She began to heal the wounds on his face. Having a task to do cut off the surge of overwhelming thoughts.

“You gave him your secret. For me.”

He was thinking of that again. She was glad of it. It was better that he think about things like this when his thoughts focused on her, rather than vengeance and obsessive protectiveness. She glanced at him with a tiny smile. “Yes. And… you risked yours for me.”

* * *

Some time later, Slughorn—his memories edited to remove Tom’s survival of the Killing Curse and all related comments that followed it—had sent an owl to the Ministry informing Dippet, Dumbledore, and the Minister of what had happened. The combatants had been tied up and Stupefied. The elder Lestrange’s death and the present condition of his son were going to be explained as unfortunate accidents, which Hermione supposed was true for one of them. It was hard for her to object _too_ much to what had happened to Roland Lestrange without hearing her conscience call her a hypocrite, and she supposed that at least the young man could start anew. Vincent Rosier was again revived, sipping a general antidote that Slughorn carried.

Melania Black, Arcturus’s wife, had also been located in the house and told. She was appalled and humiliated, and it was evident even to those who were not Legilimens that she was innocent.

“He’s been closeted in this room with his friends a lot lately,” she said. “Will he—”

“I’m sure the Ministry will know that there are… extenuating circumstances,” Slughorn said.

Mrs. Black winced, understanding exactly what Slughorn was alluding to.

As they awaited the Ministry arrivals, Hermione sat on the sofa next to Tom. His arm was around her, his hand gently touching her upper arm. She thought about what had just happened.

 _Would he have done that if it had meant truly dying?_ Hermione was inclined to say no. She might have wanted it to be otherwise, but she was under no more illusions about him. _That means—s_ he revolted against the conclusion for a moment, but it was no use— _that since he hadn’t been in the curse’s path at first, I was actually the one it protected from death._

The fight, she thought, was full of irony heaped upon sick, twisted irony. Tom hadn’t killed anyone—though he had wanted to—but _she_ had, albeit by accident. A Deathly Hallow was destroyed and a Horcrux was not. And that Horcrux had arguably saved her as much as him. That was one thing she had never expected.

Would Tom have darted in front of that Killing Curse if he hadn’t been keeping the Elder Wand? She supposed he might have, since he knew that death would be permanent for her but not for him, but the wand’s magic might have given him the final push to do it. There was no way to know now—unless the same situation arose again. She didn’t want it to be tested in that way.

Still, Voldemort from her time would not have taken a Killing Curse for anyone, Horcruxes or not. Even being temporarily clinically dead would have meant weakness and vulnerability to him, and no one would have been worth that in his mind. Tom might not have truly risked his life for her, but he had risked other things, if anyone he could not silence had seen him revive. His liberty, his career, his reputation… and a part of his soul. That was significant. That mattered. Even if the Elder Wand had played a trick on him, trying to make him put himself at risk of exposure, it still mattered.

 _He would have done it without the wand’s influence,_ her heart supplied hopefully.

She gazed at his face. He met her eyes and managed a weak smirk, but it was masking something else: fear, a terrible, crippling fear. And relief that the fear was not realized.

_He would have._


	26. Those Who Meddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much, everyone who read, gave kudos, subscribed, or commented on this fic. Those of you who also write, you know this, but it means so much to know that something you wrote affected others and that they enjoyed it.
> 
> This is a long, somewhat rambly wrap-up, but there are several issues that I needed to touch upon. And I backtracked on something I said in comment replies and decided to go ahead and touch another topic I'd declared a "can of worms," mainly because it would be a glaring omission not to have it brought up at all. I think (hope?) that it's dealt with realistically, given the characterization of these two in this story's universe.
> 
> There are several ways in which this story's conclusion (mostly events of the previous chapter) turned out differently than I had originally intended. Mostly happier, to be honest. But I will say this much: The final scene is exactly what I envisioned from the very beginning. I hope you like it. :)

“Shocking business,” the Minister said, shaking his head as he surveyed the scene. “Shocking indeed.” He turned to Slughorn beseechingly. “You’re quite sure—?”

Slughorn rubbed his head and frowned. “Saw it myself. Black didn’t react well to the disappointment of Ogden’s promotion, it seems, to say and do such things.”

“Harboring such an outlandish idea about the heroes,” the Minister muttered. He cast a dark gaze at Arcturus Black.

“I’m sure, Minister, that he’s also having trouble dealing with the loss of his cousin—and in his own house,” Tom put in, a compassionate-looking smile on his face.

Hermione had to control her expression.

“Undoubtedly,” Dippet said. “Still, this is unacceptable behavior. And his paranoid belief cost Lestrange his _life…_ and his son, years of his memory. I hope he’s happy.”

Tom pasted a contrite look on his face. “I regret that,” he said.

“Of course you do,” the Minister said at once. He ambled over and patted Tom on the back. “He is a schoolmate of yours, and a housemate, isn’t he?”

Tom nodded, eyes cast down. It was very convincing. “I’ll want to visit him in St. Mungo’s. I feel… responsible for his recovery, given what happened.”

_I’m sure you do,_ Hermione thought. _You admitted you would remake him to suit your own purposes. Though I guess… I can’t criticize anyone on that subject._

“Well, naturally, but it’s the fault of the wand you won from Grindelwald, no doubt.” He gazed at the broken pieces of the Elder Wand, which now rested on the Blacks’ side table. “One never can tell how a taken wand will act. They often imbibe magic from their holder. It’s probably best that you have to use your own now, though of course you’ll want to keep the pieces as a memento.” He turned to Hermione. “And you—are you quite all right, Miss Green?” Spencer-Moon asked her solicitously. “No lasting harm?”

“Mr. Black used Legilimency on me to try to confirm his silly theory, and it gave me a headache briefly, but I wasn’t injured in the duel,” Hermione replied.

“Good,” the Minister said. He managed a brief smile, then worry spread over his face. “Of course, Black and Nott will have to be punished for this… I’ll have to consult with Bob about the penalty for kidnapping… a few months in Azkaban, most likely….” He frowned. “Unfortunate business. His daughter was going to be married… and then—well.” He trailed off, gazing around uncertainly, looking concerned, as if he had said too much.

Hermione instantly understood what his concern actually was. So did Tom.

“Minister,” he said tentatively, “if I may…?”

Spencer-Moon looked apprehensively at Tom.

“It would be unfair if people engaged in guilt-by-association, of course. But unfortunately, as you know, such things do happen, especially to leaders… and so it might be best to thoroughly disavow and distance the Ministry from… well.”

Hermione was once again impressed. Instead of telling the Minister to his face that people would use his friendship with Black against him, Tom was couching the issue in terms of “the Ministry,” while letting the man know that he knew exactly what he was really worried about, and pretending that he was the Minister’s ally.

“Yes,” Spencer-Moon said, grasping at the lifeline. “The Order of Merlin. It was… yes, best to withdraw it, since it wasn’t for heroism—not like yours and your fiancée’s.”

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting anything in particular,” Tom said modestly. “This _is_ a grieving man, after all.”

Hermione wanted to smack him. From the look on his face, Dumbledore saw through this performance too.

_He doesn’t know anything else, though,_ she reassured herself.

In a short time, a delegation of Aurors and Healers arrived. Dumbledore and Slughorn were deputized to take the students—minus Roland Lestrange—back to Hogwarts. Hermione was relieved to get away from the scene at last. That did not mean she would not have some questions for Tom once they returned to school.

* * *

Back in the Room of Requirement, Hermione held the diary, feeling its familiar aura of magic and Tom’s essence. Idly she ran a finger over the cover. Tendrils of energy shot up her arm. It was still startling, but quite pleasant. _I shouldn’t think that. This is a very Dark artifact created by a shocking act,_ she chastised herself, but it was no use. It was still a part of Tom.

“Why did you bring it?” she asked him, placing the book in the drawer of her nightstand.

He sighed. “I think _this_ influenced me.” He reached into his robe pocket and took out the pieces of the Elder Wand.

Hermione scowled. “I thought it had to be. I hope you aren’t still angry at me for snapping it. That wand had to go.”

Tom set the pieces on the table. _“Reparo,”_ he said, pointing his yew wand at it. The pieces fused together, but a visible fracture remained.

“I hope that’s just for sentimental reasons,” she said. “It won’t make it usable again.”

Tom frowned. “You needn’t sound so _pleased_ about it. This wand was an important piece of history.”

“Then donate it to a museum, or display it in a cabinet,” she added as he sneered at the suggestion to donate anything. “There are lots of items that are important pieces of history that should not be _used_ anymore.”

He scowled but could not argue the point.

“Another thing,” she said. “I don’t know how important this really is, since Lestrange didn’t actually abduct me from this room itself… but he did know I’m living here. How? Did you figure that out?”

Tom looked very uncomfortable suddenly. Hermione grew suspicious.

“Tom, how did he know?” She met his eyes and glared. “If you don’t tell me, do keep in mind that I can look up the charm and figure it out for myself, and you’ll wish you had.”

He winced.

“I’ve botched spells before, you know. Making a mistake is something that happens to everyone… even you.”

He sighed and steeled himself to give the explanation, still not meeting her eyes as he did. When he was finished, she was trying to decide whether to slap him, laugh, or smirk triumphantly.

“Don’t say it,” he muttered.

“Don’t say what?” she replied, unable to keep the smirk off her face.

“One of us would be _dead_ if I hadn’t made it.”

“Or the situation wouldn’t have arisen at all if the Fidelius Charm hadn’t been broken.”

“It would have happened eventually,” he disagreed. “Black wasn’t going to go away without a fight. He had to be discredited, and he has been now. And you said that Lestrange got you in the back. That could have happened anytime.” He looked her in the eye. “Sorry, Hermione, but without the Horcrux, either you would have been killed, or I would have been. And then your bloody _future_ would have been an unknown that you would have little control over.”

Hermione blinked. She could hardly believe it, but he was actually implying that he might have jumped in front of that curse for her even without the diary. She didn’t want to inquire further on that subject; it was too… too precious an implication, really, and if challenged, he might walk it back, add qualifiers, or become sullen about the admission. She focused on the rest of his statement. Almost as importantly, he had indicated that she had very significant control over the shape of the future if he was in that future. He was conceding that she could influence him.

_Well, I suppose he can’t deny that after the scene at Grimmauld Place,_ she thought.

She turned to him with a hesitant smile and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her.

“I’m glad neither of us died, then, and not just for the sake of ‘my bloody future.’ I can always carve a place for myself, and I am considered a hero as well. I would have been able to influence the future on my own. I just don’t want to lose _you,_ Tom.”

His eyes widened. She looked back evenly at him, the truth readable in every feature of her face. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it.

Abruptly he pulled her into his lap. “You won’t,” he said. His right hand slipped under her skirt and began to travel up her thigh. “And it’s as I said the night I proposed to you.”

“In a manner of speaking,” she muttered wryly, remembering that.

Fingernails dug into her skin in response. “It’s _as I said._ People like us should be the ones with power.”

She grimaced for a second at the mild pain, and at the fact that his thoughts would so quickly land on this. _But at least he wants to share it with me,_ she thought.

“We can make the wizarding world what it should be. Muggles can make some impressive things,” he conceded, “but magic can improve them.”

Hermione curled into him, liking this train of thought. The wizarding world would have wireless by her time, and it already had adapted photography to magic. A few select Ministry officials could have automobiles with magical expansion charms. Why not telephone, television… and eventually even more advanced technology?

“We really need to stop using the term ‘Muggle-born,’ what with Grindelwald’s research on that subject.”

“I agree with _that,”_ Hermione said bitterly. “It’s really no better than ‘Mudblood,’ when you consider it. It’s a way of separating people like me—of saying we aren’t like other wizards, and we know now that’s not even _true._ Everyone with magic has magical ancestors. They were so _stupid_ about it in my world,” she said, getting worked up. “‘No one should care about their ancestry; it means you must be prejudiced and focused on the irrelevant past, and Grindelwald was a villain, so let’s not talk about what his people found,’” she mocked. “Instead of seeing it as a way to change intransigent minds by speaking their own language.”

Tom laughed, his eyes glinting with enjoyment. “Listen to you.”

“And then not even introducing our families to it until we’re eleven! When accidental magic happened, going behind our backs to do clean-up, but _never_ telling us!” She shifted in his lap.

Tom held her tightly, but it was evident that he was really enjoying this rant.

“Well, _that stops now._ Or rather, it stops as soon as we can write it into law: They are to be told about it in infancy, and offered support for their child—I think a designated case worker, someone they can get to know over time, instead of a succession of bureaucrats.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed. “You know, Hermione, if that’s done, we can remove restrictions on underage magic. Not that it’s relevant to us anymore… but it used to be.”

“The Trace—” Hermione began.

“Detects any spell cast by anyone, so it’s actually only placed on Muggle homes, where they would assume there was only one source of magic,” he said, sneering again. “Did you know that?”

She scowled. “I figured it out eventually. There was a lot of misinformation in my time about how it worked, but I knew that, for instance, this pureblood boy I knew, a Malfoy, couldn’t possibly have been under the Trace, or it would have picked up everything his Dark wizard father did too.”

“Well, you’re correct. It was stupid, too, because it _wasn’t_ put on you _personally,_ just your residence… but it sure would keep _some_ children from practicing their spells during the summer, unlike _every other child._ At least, every other child whose parents let them use their natural gift.” He stared at her triumphantly. “And the fact that you and I managed to become so good despite that proves how superior we are.”

Of course that was his conclusion, she thought. But… they _were_ superior. They were powerful and intelligent. That, after all, was why she had been drawn to him in the first place.

“There’s something else, though,” he said, his face changing. “If we bring in all these relatives and call them Squibs, we should discourage relationships between wizards and _outside_ Muggles.” His face closed up, and his voice became clipped. “I get that we don’t need to inbreed. We just left ‘Exhibit A’ of that,” he said with a nasty, if forced, laugh. “But the Squib relatives should be good enough. They’re already in on the secret. It’s… not a good idea otherwise.”

Hermione frowned at this for a moment before realizing, in a flash, exactly why Tom believed that. Marriage to an “outside” Muggle hadn’t worked out for his mother.

_Of course, it didn’t help that she drugged him with what amounts to a date-rape potion._ But she didn’t say that. Instead she turned and embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder.

He was not sure what to make of this response. It seemed to be… maybe not pity, but sympathy, definitely, and he didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him. Not even Hermione.

He patted her back gingerly, then decided that it was time to change the subject away from this uncomfortable territory. He wasn’t even sure why he had brought it up. He had made himself vulnerable. His tone of voice had been very revealing, even uncharacteristically so—but then, that happened with her a lot.

“On the other hand, I think there are some areas in which we _should_ have more contact with the Muggle world,” he said lightly. She raised her head off his shoulder and looked at him quizzically. His eyes flashed, and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “You have _invaluable_ knowledge of the future in the Muggle world, and I’m going to find out exactly what needs to be fixed. What Muggle leaders need to be… _pushed.”_

She drew back and stared at him, dismayed. “Tom!” she rebuked. “You cannot put Muggle leaders under Imperius—” She broke off as he started chuckling. “Wait, is that a joke?”

He raised an eyebrow.

_“Is_ it?”

He smiled benignly.

Hermione stared at him, unsure whether to be mildly annoyed over a joke at her expense, or alarmed about the statement. _Was_ he serious? He was acting as if it had been a joke, a way to divert the conversation away from an uncomfortably personal reveal. But at the same time, high-handedly Imperiusing important Muggles to shape the world as he liked was exactly the kind of thing he would want to do.

_I have influence over him,_ she reminded herself. _If he means it, and if he ever tries it, I’ll just…._ Just what, though? Like so many subjects, this one didn’t have a simple answer anymore. The Muggles’ nuclear weapons would detonate as scheduled, and there was nothing she or Tom could do about that. But in a few years, the Cold War would begin, and she would live through it. Her country would lose its holdings and superpower status. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to reshape some of the worse parts of twentieth-century Muggle history. She had already reshaped wizarding history—she hoped for the better.

_I’ll figure that out later,_ she decided.

* * *

_June 1945._

NEWT exams were over. Hermione, predictably, had been a nervous wreck throughout them. She had wanted to relive each test with Tom, and his response to that had been—somewhat painfully, she had to admit—not unlike Harry and Ron’s after OWLs.

“You did fine,” he said dismissively after the Defense practical.

“I got an E in my OWL for this one,” she fretted. “It’s always been my weakest area.”

“You’ve had me for a tutor for months,” he said arrogantly.

She scowled at him but did not argue the point.

He wasn’t finished. “Besides,” he said, “no one’s going to care about your test scores. Weren’t you going to start your own organization, anyway? You don’t have to meet anyone else’s NEWT criteria for that.”

“I’ll need money to start an organization, which means I’ll have to ask for philanthropy… which means I must be credible,” she said. “I’ll need to work out exactly what I want it to be about. I think—a mix of legal policy and magical research. But the money is a problem. Part of the reason why magical advances aren’t that common is that you have the Ministry, St. Mungo’s, and some independently wealthy people, and pretty much no one else has the money to fund research expenses.”

A gleam appeared in Tom’s eyes. “Or you could ‘invent’ something very lucrative from the future.”

Hermione looked appalled at that suggestion. “I’d feel like a thief, stealing from whoever was supposed to _actually_ invent it.”

“But if there are things that significantly improve people’s lives… wouldn’t it be better to start improving their lives earlier? To improve _more_ lives?” he said, suppressing a grin. “Especially if you did use the money to fund your organization. What’s more important, the wealth of one person, or the _good_ you could achieve for so many?”

Hermione stared hard at Tom. “I know what you’re trying to do,” she said. “I recognize that tone of voice.”

He put on an innocent expression. “It’s just something to consider.”

_The thing is, I am actually considering it,_ she thought to herself as he settled on the sofa next to her. _Something like… Wolfsbane, perhaps. I would be taking credit for something that wasn’t my idea… but that would indeed improve many lives in a really important way. Maybe he has a point._

Hermione leaned against him, trying not to think too hard about what was already happening. She could influence him, but he was able to influence her too.

He draped an arm around her shoulder. She smiled and curled closer to him. He tightened his grip, satisfied that he had at least talked her out of her anxiety over the examinations. There was something else he wanted to discuss, anyway.

“So,” he began, “about that flat.”

They had picked out a very nice little townhouse in an area of London that had not been badly affected by the bombings. Tom intended at some point to take possession of the Riddle property in Hangleton and rent it out, though he did not mention it to Hermione after her extremely disapproving response to being told. He didn’t want to live there, though. She was glad of that. In addition to the Riddle house’s ugly history, being in the city would make her feel less isolated. Less, well, stuck with _only_ him for company.

“What about it?” she asked.

“Well… since neither of us has anywhere else to go, it would make more sense to move in immediately.”

“I agree.”

He looked relieved. “Maybe not _literally_ immediately… I mean, I could take a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a few days.”

Hermione suddenly understood where this conversation was going. In her time, it would have been a non-issue for an engaged couple—or just a couple—to live together. No one whose opinion she valued _(except perhaps for Mrs. Weasley,_ she thought with some disgruntlement) would have cared. But this was 1945, and people would care, especially the kind of people that she and Tom needed to cultivate.

“I see,” she said slowly. “Well, you know what I want. Us, Slughorn, Dumbledore— _no,_ don’t look like that, he has to be there and you know it—maybe the Rosiers, perhaps Dippet—he likes us—maybe Ogden… but a _small guest list._ And a fairly informal event.”

“Sounds good to me.” He pecked her on the cheek and turned away at once, facing forward and staring at the opposite wall.

She instantly recognized that either it _didn’t_ actually sound good to him, or he had something else on his mind but apparently did not want to bring it up, whatever it was. She wasn’t going to have that. “What is it?” she asked. “Something is bothering you. Do you dislike my plans?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine with your plans.”

“Then what is it?”

He would not look at her. “I was thinking about all that comes after.”

“Are you having second thoughts?” She hoped not, at this point. He considered her _his,_ after all. Surely he wasn’t having doubts _now._

“Not second thoughts about you, but… oh, bugger it, I don’t know how to say this. It’s something I didn’t think I would ever care about, but because it’s _you,_ I suddenly do… and I’m really getting the impression that you don’t want it at all.” His features curled into a sneer. “With me, at least,” he added darkly.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You mean—a _family?”_ That _did_ surprise her. If Hermione had been asked when she first arrived in this time if she believed he would be interested in that, she would have responded with an unequivocal “no.” Apparently, that too had changed.

He glowered defensively, as if embarrassed by the confession. “Strangely enough, my personal interest in the future of the wizarding world has now taken _that_ path too.”

Hermione collapsed on the sofa and closed her eyes. This was entirely unexpected, and she did not trust herself to speak to him honestly about it. She was not against the idea of becoming a mother, in the general case. In fact, in her original time, she had wanted to. It had been part of her long-term life plans. But her circumstances had changed. She did not think Tom would be a good father at all.

But she _had_ wanted it, and it seemed that he did too now.

_I don’t have to do this, any of this. He would be angry and unhappy, and probably would badger me for the rest of my life, but he won’t force me to marry him. But if I don’t, then…._ She sighed again as she arrived at her conclusion. _He wouldn’t countenance it if I saw anyone else. If the Unspeakables made traveling to the future perfectly safe and I left, he would follow me. He’s already said he would. I truly would have to betray him to get away from him, and I know I can’t do that now. If I ever do have kids, they’ll be his._

Why did he even want them? It was possible that, given his extremely high opinion of himself, he might consider it right and proper to pass on his traits, like Parseltongue, high intelligence, and magical power—or for there to be people who were the offspring of himself and the one person he deemed worthy of his companionship. Hermione’s mouth twisted at this train of thought. It did not reassure her that he would be a decent parent, quite the opposite in fact.

“I really didn’t expect that, Tom,” she finally said. “The other you was not interested in it in the slightest.”

“The ‘other me’ wasn’t interested in much of anything except violence and pretending to be something he wasn’t. I hope you don’t still judge me based on that.”

“It’s a path you could have taken,” she said. “But… I just need to think about this, Tom. You’re correct that I didn’t plan for it. It’s not that I don’t want it, but I really didn’t consider it.”

He subsided, watching her carefully. She tried to hide her emotions as she thought about it.

_He wanted—wants—to be immortal, and is, more or less. What would he think of the fact that his children would someday die?_

That, unfortunately, Hermione could easily answer. _He has the Resurrection Stone and would use it if he had to,_ she thought. _Just like the second brother. And also—_ She recalled his statements the day they had officially made up.

_“I don’t even want to lose you to death.”_

_“I hope you reconsider that someday.”_

Oh, she had her answer. _He would indoctrinate them in the Dark Arts,_ she thought grimly. _He would care about them, certainly, but then, he also cares about me. And just how does that manifest?_

She closed her eyes and covered them with her fingers. _He’s dark with me, but he would be darker without me. Even if he only doesn’t do something because he knows it would displease me, at least he doesn’t do it… and several times I have talked him down from killing. Voldemort always lurks beneath the surface for him, in one manifestation or another, and if I want to keep him from becoming that thing, I have to remain close to him. And, so help me, but… I love him._

She couldn’t explain why, in rational terms, but neither could she deny the fact. Of course, no one would ever claim that love was rational. Despite the shady politicking, the espionage, the lies, despite all of the darkness—she still did. He was unlike anyone she had ever known and probably ever _would_ know.

Still, this was a hard future to face, committing herself to staying with someone she knew was dark in order to keep him from destroying his life. Knowing she would always, _always_ have to decide what darkness of his she ought to limit and what she had to avert her eyes from. _What is right rather than what is easy,_ she thought, though it wasn’t often self-evident which was which. Some people would argue that what was right would be to destroy the diary or turn in Tom, and that she was taking a coward’s way or a romantic fool’s way, but it was not that simple. In her view, _that_ was the easy choice. It was certainly the choice of someone who had given up on him. She was convinced that the right one was what she was going to do… but it was also the hard one, and it was a life that she feared would result in her eventually losing herself if she did not have anything of her own. No, not feared— _knew._

She loved him, but she was tired of the prospect of sacrificing everything she wanted for him. Relationships, even normal ones, involved compromise, but it should never be this one-sided. She was not going to forfeit this dream, any more than she intended to give up her burning desire to improve the wizarding world. If she wanted kids someday, she would have them, and she simply would not _allow_ their father to turn them into younger versions of himself. It wouldn’t be now, nor for several years, but perhaps someday. She might never get her old friends and family back, but she could have this. They might even be able to help him in ways that she could not, she hoped. In any case, she had chosen to give him a second chance. She should also give herself one.

She opened her eyes. “I would do it—eventually. In five or so years, maybe. But I’m nineteen, Tom, and I want to get this other thing established first. It’ll take a lot of my time to get it started and running.”

He met her eyes, stared into them, and then broke the gaze. He nodded quickly, and a faint smile—a real one—appeared on his face.

Then it transformed into that smirk of his. “If it’s five years, we can get in a lot of practice,” he drawled, reaching for her waist and hips and moving to pull her off the sofa.

_Oh no you don’t,_ she thought suddenly. As she got to her feet, she took control of the situation. She put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a hard, aggressive look. His eyes widened.

They remained wide as Hermione walked him assertively toward the bed, though gleams of desire began to show. His eyes widened even more as she pushed him onto the mattress on his back, fully dressed. His head sank into the huge fluffy pillows. Her confidence growing by the moment, she mounted him, straddled his waist, and pressed his head further into the sea of cushions. His eyes returned to normal and his gaze flickered quickly back and forth. Her palms rested firmly on his shoulders, and she stared at him smugly. He stared back at her in profound approval, a grin playing at the corners of his lips.

“I’m pleased that you want me this much,” he said.

She smirked back at him and ground against his crotch, making him squirm. _“I’m_ pleased that you want me to show it this way. I thought you liked being in total control.”

“Who says I’m not?” he managed to gasp.  “Perhaps this is what I intended to happen.”

She pushed him back into the pillows again and threaded the fingers of one hand into his hair. “Perhaps you lie. Let’s find out who is in control this time, shall we?” Her other hand strayed to his trousers.

“It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

The end of term was only getting busier, it seemed—though perhaps it was because, in addition to preparing for the end of school, Hermione also had to begin furnishing a house and throwing together some sort of wedding. It would be held after the term ended in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, which had built-in security to keep away unwanted gawkers. She was very glad that she had put her foot down about making it a small, private event, rather than a public spectacle and a planning nightmare. Her thoughts about it were measured enough as it was, and completely lacking in girlish excitement. Of course, that was probably a blessing. Most women who had that sort of giddiness were let down later as the reality set in that they were married to imperfect human beings. At least in her case, she knew what she was getting into.

She had just received a package from Twilfit and Tatting’s, a very specific package, and was about to try it on and determine what magical adjustments needed to be made, when Dumbledore intercepted her in the corridor.

He glanced quickly at the package, then back to her. “Would you come to my office, Miss Green?” he asked kindly. “I have news that may interest you.”

“Of course,” she said at once.

Once inside, she sat down opposite his desk. He took off his half-moon spectacles and set them down on the desktop.

“When I was at the Ministry earlier in the term—that day that those unfortunate events occurred—I dropped by the Department of Mysteries to meet some former students who now work there.”

Hermione was cynically surprised by that; she could not recall him ever checking in on his past favorites by the time he was an old man. Maybe, she thought, he simply had too much on his plate. Maybe _that_ was another part of the problem all along: The man was spread too thin, trying to do too much, and not doing any of it very well as a result.

She did not dwell too long on that, however, because something else made her ears perk up. _The Department of Mysteries._ She had a feeling she knew where this was headed….

“Yes, you have guessed what I am about to say,” he said, noticing her expression. “They were working on Time-Turners. I did not, of course, betray your secret, but I was obviously quite interested in their progress. Since then, they have developed a device… I believe it could send you forward, if you wished to return.”

Hermione felt sick. She didn’t want this choice. Not now.

“There is, unfortunately, a catch: What would happen to you in the future is unclear. They don’t know what would happen to your memories in the transition. The ‘other you’ would have to be sent back, of course, because otherwise the Unspeakables theorize that you would share your memories and consciousness, but they really do not know what would happen to a traveler otherwise. Your memories might be merged with those of the ‘other you,’ they might be erased and overwritten, or they might be left as they are. To be honest, Miss Green, I cannot decide what option of those three would be preferable.”

Hermione’s nausea doubled. Why would Dumbledore think she would want to take such an appalling risk? Let alone that dropping out of this new timeline would make it highly uncertain what sort of future she would be traveling to.

She took a deep breath. “I appreciate your interest in my—situation—and that you took the trouble to look into this,” she said slowly, “but I can’t take that risk. I don’t know what I would be going back to. Based on what you just told me, I don’t even know who I would be.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I was issued a basic Time-Turner in my third year.”

Dumbledore nodded encouragingly.

“When my professor gave it to me, she impressed something upon me: ‘Awful things happen to wizards who meddle with time.’ That was what she told me. I’d rather not say too much, but Professor, something awful has already happened to me.”

He looked concerned.

“I’ve lost everyone I knew,” she said. “I don’t mean that they aren’t with me anymore. Most of them had already died. I mean that I have changed some things in such a way that the future would be quite different from the one I left behind. None of the people I knew would be the same. I won’t get them back, at least not as I knew them. You said in September that I needed to establish a life for myself here and now, and I think I have. If I went forward, I’d lose everyone I’ve come to know in _this_ world, but from the sounds of it, yet another awful thing could happen to me. I might lose _myself.”_

Dumbledore sighed. “You might, if what they told me is true—and I have no reason to doubt it. You don’t wish to attempt this, then?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No. I think I’ve figured out what I need to do in this time. It wasn’t just one thing. It wasn’t just changing a few things and then skipping back. It’s a commitment.”

Fawkes, she noticed, was outside his cage, perched on the windowsill. He let out a soft coo and flew over to her. She flinched, remembering in an instant what had happened the last time he did that, but she was not holding a Time-Turner now. The phoenix alighted on her shoulder and rubbed his feathered head against her cheek.

“You _are_ the Fawkes from my time, aren’t you?” she muttered to the bird, lightly petting him. _“You_ sent me back.” She turned her head slightly, meeting avian eyes with human ones.

Fawkes merely stared back at her inscrutably.

* * *

As much as Hermione believed that the wizarding world needed to adopt more customs and inventions from the Muggles, she was glad that they had their own customs about weddings. She could get away with wearing a dress that was not entirely white—that, in fact, had _black_ on it, at least in the embroidery and lace on the skirt—and no one thought it inappropriate. Indeed, the Muggle custom of solid bridal white was the one that was considered peculiar. She was happy about that. Wearing solid white for _this_ wedding would have felt ghastly, and not for reasons that had anything to do with traditional virginal symbolism. It would have been, perhaps, one bit of twisted irony too many. It would, in fact, have made the entire ceremony feel like a fraud. She had picked out her dress for a reason, and it felt right.

She was also glad that wizards had long moved past the silly business of requiring “consummation.” A magical contract was a magical contract, and contracts were made by verbal or written assent. Eventually, in a few decades, Muggles would come around, but this was one way she had to acknowledge that wizards _were_ ahead. She wasn’t being physically “claimed,” but consenting to an agreement. That, too, would have been too much otherwise, though for a different reason.

Not, of course, that she was going to just go to sleep immediately tonight.

* * *

One of the good things about Tom was that he did seem to understand—or share, at least—certain things about her. They were of a similar type in many ways: intelligent, bookish, and hyper-ambitious among those ways. Hermione clung to these similarities, as they were the initial reason that Tom stood out to her despite everything; and she could enjoy ordinary activities with him because he _did_ understand aspects of her that nobody else ever had. It was nice not to have to justify and defend her interests to someone who didn’t get it and didn’t care to get it.

For example: When Hermione was enthusiastic about a big idea and eager to start working on it, a diversion, vacation, or “romantic getaway” held no appeal. She would not be able to enjoy it, since she had other things she wanted to begin. And Tom felt the same.

The Minister and Bob Ogden—to say nothing of Slughorn—were startled and somewhat dismayed that the “young heroes” wanted to skip a honeymoon or grand tour and get to work immediately. In fact, there was quite a bit of concern and several attempts to persuade them otherwise.

_“Your job is going to be very demanding,”_ Ogden had protested to Tom.

It was all to no avail. The two of them strode confidently into the Ministry the Monday after their wedding ceremony, dressed in smart suits and well-tailored robes, smiling pleasantly. It might have even been a sincere smile for both of them.

Tom, of course, was there to begin as the Deputy Advisor to Ogden. Hermione was there to meet and greet the Ministry officials, but also to explain her plans for a nonprofit. Even if some (mostly high-ranking) Ministry employees had personal conflicts of interest, they would have family members who did not. She needed to get the word out, and she needed to make contacts of her own. She still did not have any friends in this time other than him. She had always heard that the best way to make friends was to be around people with similar interests, but she had always had difficulty finding people like her. Hopefully, now that she was an adult and out of Hogwarts, that would be different.

With school out, Slughorn was taking advantage of the opportunity to show off his prize pupils. He bustled about the building, his name—or theirs—a password to almost anywhere he wanted to be, including, it seemed, the office of the Minister himself.

“Of course I can set aside a few minutes!” Spencer-Moon exclaimed. “First day, after all. Definitely come in.”

Hermione and Tom filed into the office. She tried to control her face, but it was difficult. This was quite an opulent place, with an elegantly carved desk of some sort of dark wood, thick velvety rugs, richly upholstered furniture, classically painted magic portraits, and exquisite magical instruments the likes of which she had only ever seen in Dumbledore or Slughorn’s offices.

She looked expressively at Tom, eyebrows raised. He met her gaze and smirked.

The Minister was talking pleasantries with Slughorn. His head was turned and he did not have his eyes on either Hermione or Tom. As they settled their gaze upon him, Hermione caught something in her peripheral vision.

Tom was staring at the preoccupied Minister with a decidedly predatory gleam in his eyes. She might have imagined it, but she thought she saw them momentarily flash red.

She quickly looked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to "DH Epilogue" everyone's future (that thing is a mere suggestion, as far as I'm concerned), but if you are interested in reading more of my own headcanon about Tom and Hermione in this AU, check out my fic "A Marked Deck." It's not a true sequel, but a series of short scenes occurring after this story. It isn't going to answer all of the questions I've raised, and especially not "Is the wizarding world really better off?" and "What happens with the Horcrux?" I want to leave those questions open to reader interpretation and preference.
> 
> Alternatively, you can decide for yourselves what outcomes you prefer about everything. I know that the last bit is very suggestive, even ominous, but I think it's best that I end _this_ story here.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. It’s been great.
> 
> Here is Minister Tom, if you like that outcome. A larger pic can be found [on my Tumblr](http://betagyre-penname.tumblr.com/post/139747627309/i-am-a-writer-and-crafter-not-an-artist-i-draw). Click on the image in that post.


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